“Git out o’ de way, you niggers! Aint y’ all got no manners? Git out o’
Marse Billy way! I declar’ fo’ Gaud niggers ain’t got no manners dese
days. Tain’t like it used to be. Y’ all gittin’ wuss and wuss.”
So saying, Aunt Polly made an unceremonious opening among the eager
heads of the youngsters that were thrust into the door-way; and Billy
pressed laughing through the throng, nodding here and there as he
passed. His arrival was hailed with beaming smiles by the ladies, and an
almost uproarious welcome by the gentlemen. The Don had already opened
his heart to him before he had gotten within introducing distance,
charmed by his frank and manly bearing, his hearty manner with the
gentlemen, his gentle deference to each lady in turn. So Billy’s sunny
face, his cordial rushing hither and thither to greet his friends, his
cheery laugh as he exchanged a bright word here and there,—a laugh that
revealed a set of powerful and large, though well-shaped teeth,—all
this had lighted up the thoughtful face of the Don with a sympathetic
glow,—a glow that vanished when, on their being introduced, Billy’s
fist closed upon his hand.
Mr. Billy was always a great favorite with me. Indeed, I like to think
of him as a kind of ideal young Virginian of those days,—so true, and
frank, and cordial, and unpretending. But there is one thing—I have
mentioned it above—that, as a historian, I am bound to confess: Billy
was addicted to playing on the fiddle.
“So, young ladies,” said my grandfather (for whose annual tunes no one,
somehow, had thought of calling), “you will have a fiddle to dance by,
after all.” A remark that elicited a joyous clapping of hands; and there
was a general stir for partners.
“Dares any man to speak to me of fiddling,” said Billy, “before I have
punished a few dozen of these bivalves?”
“That’s right, Billy! Dick, some oysters for Mr. Jones! They were never
better than this season!”
Billy passed into the next room, where Dick and his spouse began to
serve him with hospitable zeal.
“How was she, Marse Billy?”
Billy had just disposed of a monster that Dick had opened for him, and
was looking thoughtful.
“Uncle Dick, it almost makes me cry to think how much better that oyster
was than any we can get at the University; indeed it does.”
Dick chuckled with delight. “I believe you, Marse Billy; dey tells me
dere ain’t no better oysters in all Fidginny dan de Leicester oyster.”
Four or five students, who, like Billy, had run down home for the
holidays, had collected round the doorway leading into the library, and
with them several girls who were listening in a half-suppressed titter
to Billy’s solemn waggery. Lifting a huge “bivalve” on the prongs of his
fork, he contemplatively surveyed it.
“You are right, Uncle Dick; Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed
like one of these!”
“Jess so! What I tell you, Polly?” said Dick, straightening himself and
holding an unopened oyster in one hand and his knife in the other.
“Didn’t I say the Nuniversity was de most high-larnt school in de
Nunited States?”
Polly, being Mrs. Dick, had too great an admiration for that worthy’s
wisdom to do anything but simper assent.
“Jess so,”—and he held his eye upon her till he felt sure that she had
abandoned all thought of protesting against his dictum,—“eben so. You
right, Marse Billy; Solomon nor no other man never raised ’em like one
o’ dese. Ain’t you takin’ nothin’ to-night, Marse William? Dey tells me
toddy help a oyster powerful.”
“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Billy, with admiring surprise, “how do you
manage always to know exactly what a fellow wants?”
“Marse William,”—and Dick drew himself up to his full height,—“I ain’t
been ’sociatin’ wid de quality all dese years for nothin’.”
The dancing being over at a reasonable hour,—Billy and the Herr
furnishing the music,—the ladies retired to their rooms in the
“Great-House,” leaving the gentlemen to their toddy and cigars; and a
jovial crew they became. Billy and the Herr bore a large part in the
entertainment of the company,—the former executing reel and jig and jig
and reel in dashing style,—the latter improvising accompaniments,—his
head thrown back, a cigar-stump between his teeth, and contemplating,
through his moist spectacles, with a serene Teutonic merriment, the
capers of the revellers, one or another of whom could not, from time to
time, resist the fascination of the rhythm, but would spring to his feet
and execute something in the nature of a Highland fling or a
double-shuffle, to the great delight of the others, and of none more
than my glorious old grandfather. It is needless to remark that at each
one of these Terpsichorean exhibitions there was a suppressed roar of
chuckles to be heard issuing from the sable throng that crowded the
door-ways, and that there might have been seen as many rows of ivories
as there were heads massed together there.
“It is refreshing, Mr. Whacker,” observed the Don, whose reserve was
unmistakably thawing under the apple-toddy, “to see a man of your age
sympathizing so heartily with us youngsters in our enjoyments.”
“Yes,” remarked the old gentleman, lolling comfortably back in his
chair; “but I am not so sure that I have left all the fun to the
youngsters;” and he nodded towards his empty glass; “but I believe I
enjoy the capers of the boys more than the toddy.”
“Go it, Billy!” cried a student, as that artist dashed into a jig with a
zeal heightened by the enthusiasm of the now slightly boozy Herr.
“Bravo!” cried Mr. Whacker; “you will have to look to your laurels,
Charley.”
“Oh, I resign!” said Charley, examining the rag on his finger.
“By the way, Charley, you have not yet shown Mr. Smith the old
Guarnerius. Do you take any interest in such things?”
“I have a great curiosity to see it.”
“I am afraid it will not show off to advantage. I have forgotten to have
it mounted with strings this Christmas. Do you know that a violin gets
hoarse, as it were, from lying idle?”
“I have heard something of the kind.”
“I should have had it strung several days ago.”
“I put strings on it day before yesterday,” said Charley.
“Indeed!” said my grandfather; “but you were always thoughtful. Let us
have it, Charley.”
Charley’s return with the violin made a stir among the company. Billy
stopped his fiddling and came up, followed by all present, to see opened
the case that contained the wonderful instrument, which was a sort of
lion among the fiddlers of the county. My grandfather unlocked the case
with a certain nervous eagerness, raised the lid almost reverently, and
removing the padded silken covering which protected it, “Now just look
at that,” said the old gentleman, his eye kindling.
I have often seen ladies take their female friends to the side of a
cradle, and softly turning down the coverlet, look up, as much as to
say, “Did you ever see anything half so beautiful?” And I must do the
female friends the justice to add that they always signified that they
never had; and I have often seen the subject of such unstinted praise,
when brought before males, pronounced a pretty enough baby, but a baby
seemingly in no wise different from all the babies that are, have been,
or shall be; and on such occasions I can recall, methinks, some maiden
aunt, for example, who has ended by getting worried at the persistent
inability of some obstinate young fellow to see certain points of
superiority about mouth, eyes, or nose, which to her were very clear.
And so it was on this occasion, as on many previous ones, with my
grandfather. He was always amazed, when he showed his violin, at the
polite coldness of the praise that it received.
“Look at those _f_-holes,” said he, taking the violin out of its case;
“look at those clean-cut corners!” And everybody craned his neck and
tried to see the clean-cut corners. “What a contour!” exclaimed the
enthusiastic old gentleman, holding the instrument off at arm’s length
and gazing rapturously upon it. There was a murmur of adhesion, as the
French say.
“Splendid!” ejaculated Billy, feeling that something was due from him as
the fiddler of the evening; thereby drawing the gleaming eyes of Mr.
Whacker full upon him. “Splendid!” repeated he, in a somewhat lower
tone, and looking steadfastly at the violin; for he could not look the
old gentleman in the face,—knowing—the honest scamp—that he was a
fraud, and saw nothing wonderful in the instrument.
“Why, hand me that old gourd you have been playing on,” said Mr.
Whacker; and he snatched the fiddle from Billy’s hand. “Look at those
two scrolls, for example,” said the old gentleman, bumping them together
within three inches of Billy’s nose.
Billy took the two necks in his hands, screwed up his face, and tried
his best to look knowing; but his broad, genial countenance could not
bear the tension long; and a sudden flash of humor from his kindly eyes
set the company in a roar, in which my grandfather could not help
joining.
“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I ought not to expect you to be a
connoisseur in violins. Would you like to examine it?” said Mr. Whacker,
thinking he detected a look of interest on the part of the Don,—and he
handed him the instrument.
The Unknown took it in an awkward and confused sort of way. My
grandfather looked chopfallen. “I thought that possibly you might have
seen Cremonas in Europe,” observed the old man timidly.
The Don bowed,—whether in assent or dissent was not clear; nor was it
any clearer, as he gently rocked it to and fro, examining the _f_-holes
and other points of what is known as the belly of the instrument,
whether he was moved by curiosity or by courtesy. A motion of his wrist
brought the back of the instrument in view. “By Jove!” vehemently
exclaimed the stranger, as a flood of golden light flashed into his eyes
from the unapproachable varnish; but he colored and looked confused when
he saw that his warmth had drawn the eyes of all upon himself. Even
Charley ceased examining the bandage on his finger and quietly
scrutinized the Don out of the corners of his eyes.
But you should have seen your ancestor and mine, my dear boy. He rose
from his seat without saying a single word. There was an expression of
defiance in his fine brown eyes, not unmingled with solemnity. He held
out his upturned hands as though he were going to begin a speech, I was
going to say,—but it was not that. His look and attitude were those of
an advocate who has just brought a poser to bear on opposing counsel.
And such my grandfather felt was his case. “For years,” his looks seemed
to say, “I have been chaffed about my Guarnerius by you bumpkins, and
now here comes a man who puts you all down by one word.” He looked from
face to face to see if any of the company had anything to say to the
contrary. At last his eve met Billy’s. That young gentleman, willing to
retrieve his disastrous defeat in the matter of scrolls and contours and
_f_-holes, again came to the front.
“Doesn’t it shine!” remarked that unfortunate youth, approvingly.
“Shine!” shouted my grandfather, indignantly,—“shine!” repeated he with
rising voice, and rapping the back of the violin with his knuckles,—“do
you call that shiny?” said he, with another rap, and holding the
instrument in front of Billy. “Why, a tin pan shines,—a well-fed negro
boy’s face shines,—and you say _that_ shines,” he added, with an
argumentative rap. “Is that the way you are taught to discriminate in
the use of words at the University?” And the old gentleman smiled,
mollified by Billy’s evident confusion and the shouts of laughter that
greeted his discomfiture.
“Why, Uncle Tom, if that violin doesn’t shine, what does it do?”
“Why, it—well—I should say—ahem!—in fact, it—I—”
“What would you call it, Uncle Tom?” urged Billy, rallying bravely from
his rout, and trying to assume a wicked smile.
“What would I call it? I would call it—well—the violin—confound it! I
should hold my tongue rather than say that violin was shiny.” And the
old gentleman turned upon his heel and stalked across the room; but
Billy was not the man to relinquish his advantage.
“How, Uncle Tom, that is not fair,” said he, following up his adversary,
and holding on to the lappel of his coat in an affectionately teasing
manner. “Give us _your_ word.”
“Shiny! shiny!” spluttered the old gentleman with testy scorn.
“Ah, but that won’t do. Let the company have your word, Uncle Tom.” And
the young rogue tipped a wink to a knot of students. “The violin is—?”
“Effulgent!” shouted his adversary, wheeling upon him and bringing down
the violin, held in both hands, with a swoop.
I shall take the liberty here of assuming that my readers are, as I was
myself, till Charley enlightened me, ignorant of the fact that the
varnish of the violins of the old masters is considered a great point.
Collectors go into raptures over the peculiar lustre of their old
instruments, which, they say, is the despair of modern makers. I have
myself seen, or at least handled, but one of them,—my grandfather’s old
Guarnerius,—and that, certainly, was singularly beautiful in this
respect.
“Effulgent!” cried he, his noble brown eyes dilated, his head tossed
back and swaying from side to side,—tapping gently, with the
finger-nails of his right hand, the back of the violin, upon which the
light of a neighboring lamp danced and flamed. The students indicated to
Billy, in their hearty fashion, that he had got what he wanted, and Mr.
Whacker, spurred on by their approval, rose to the height of his great
argument.
“Just look at that,” said he, turning with enthusiasm to one of the
students,—“just look at that,” he repeated, flashing the golden light
into the eyes of another; “why, it almost seems to me that we have here
the very rays that, a century ago, this maple wood absorbed in its pores
from the sun of Italy.”
How much more my grandfather was going to say I know not; for he was
interrupted by a storm of applause from his young auditors.
“I say, boys, that’s a regular old-fashioned ‘curl,’” whispered one of
them.
“Uncle Tom,” said Billy, removing the bow from the case, “does _this_
effulge any?”
“But, Mr. Whacker,” observed a fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman, “it
strikes me that the important thing about a fiddle is its tone, not its
varnish. Now, do you really think your Cremona superior to a
twenty-dollar fiddle in tone? Honestly now, is there any difference
worth mentioning?”
“Any difference? Heavens above! Why, listen!” And the old gentleman drew
the bow slowly over double strings, till the air of the room seemed to
palpitate with the rich harmony. “Did you ever hear anything like that?”
exclaimed he, with flushing face; and he drew the bow again and again.
There were exclamations of admiration—real or affected—all around the
room.
The Don alone was silent.
I remember looking towards him with a natural curiosity to see what
he—the only stranger present—appeared to think of the instrument; but
he gave no sign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He was gazing
fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of rapt look,—his head bowed, his
lips firmly compressed, but twitching a little. His eyes had a certain
glitter about them, strongly contrasting with their usual expression of
unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley, but his eyes did not
meet mine; for he had turned his chair away from the fire, and was
scrutinizing the stranger’s face with a quiet but searching look.
“It is a little hoarse from long disuse,” said Mr. Whacker, drawing the
bow slowly as before.
“Give us a tune, Uncle Tom?”
“Yes, yes!” joined in a chorus. “Give us a tune!”
“Pshaw!” said the old gentleman, “it would be a profanation to play a
‘tune’ on this instrument.”
“There is where I don’t agree with you, Mr. Whacker,” put in the fat and
jolly middle-aged gentleman. “The last time I was in Richmond I went to
hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wish never to hear
again,—nothing but running up and down the strings, with de’il a bit of
tune that I could see.”
“That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confound their science,
say I.”
“Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, encouraged.
“The fact is, it spoils a fiddler to teach him his notes. Music should
come from the heart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billy here,
but, so far as I am concerned, I would rather hear him than all the Ole
Bulls and Paganinis that ever drew a bow.”
“Rather hear Billy? I should think so! Why, any left-handed negro
fiddler can beat those scientific fellows all hollow.”
My grandfather, during the passage at arms that ensued upon the
expression of these sentiments, grew rather warm, and at last appealed
to the Don. He, as though loath to criticise the performance of our
friend Billy, spoke guardedly. “I should think,” said he, “that music
would be like anything else,—those who devoted most time to it would be
most proficient.”
“Of gourse!” broke in the Herr, who had not allowed the discussion to
draw him very far from the bowl of toddy. “Now, joost look at unser
frient Pilly. Dot yung mon has a real dalent for de feedle,—but vot he
blay? Noding als reels unt cheeks unt zuch dinks. Joost sent dot yung
mon one time nach Europen, unt by a goot master. Donnerwetter, I show
you somedink! Tausendteufels!” added he, draining his glass, “vot for a
feedler dot yung Pilly make!”
I may remark that just in proportion as the Herr mollified his water did
he dilute his English. Just in proportion as he approached the bottom of
a punch-bowl did the language of Shakespeare and Milton become to him an
obscure idiom.
“Won’t you try its tone?” said Mr. Whacker, offering the violin and bow
to the Don.
“Oh,” replied he, deprecatingly.
“It’s of no consequence that you can’t play,” insisted the old
gentleman. “Just try the tone. Here, this way,” added he, putting the
violin under the Don’s chin.
It may seem strange that I, a bachelor, should be so fond of
illustrating my scenes by means of babies; but as the whole frame-work
and cast of this story compels me to marry at some future day, I may be
allowed to say that the Don held the violin just as I have seen young
fellows hold an infant that had been thrust into their arms by some
mischievous young girl. Afraid to refuse to take it lest the mother be
hurt, they are in momentary terror lest it fall.
“There! So!” exclaimed the old gentleman, adjusting the instrument.
While every one else smiled at the scene, Charley was, strangely enough,
almost convulsed with a noiseless chuckle that brought the tears into
his eyes.
“The old boy feels his toddy,” thought I.
The Don began to scrape dismally.
“Ah, don’t hold the bow so much in the middle!—So!—That’s better!—Now
pull away! Keep the bow straight!—There, that’s right! So!—”
Charley rocked in his seat.
“Now, up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Very good! Down! Up! Bow straight!—”
Charley leaped from his chair and held his sides. Well, even Cato
occasionally moistened his clay.
“So! Better still! Excellent! Upon my word, you are an apt scholar!”
Charley dropped into his seat, threw back his head, and shut his eyes.
The Don paused, smiling.
“What a tone!” exclaimed my grandfather. “Oh!” cried he with intense
earnestness, “if—if I could but hear, once again, an artist play upon
that violin!”
The smile passed from the Unknown’s face. A strange look came into his
eyes, as though his thoughts were far away. His chin relaxed its hold
upon the violin and pressed upon his breast. His right arm slowly
descended till the tip of the bow almost touched the floor; and there he
stood, his eyes fixed upon the ground. A stillness overspread the
company. No one moved a muscle save Charley. He, with an odd smile in
his eyes, softly drew from his pocket a small pen-knife and held it in
his left hand, with the nail of his right thumb in the notch of the
blade.
Slowly, and as if unconsciously to himself, the Don’s right arm began to
move. The violin rose, somehow, till it found its way under his chin.
Charley opened his knife.
There were signs in the Unknown’s countenance of a sharp but momentary
struggle, when his right arm suddenly sprang from its pendent position,
and the wrist, arched like the neck of an Arab courser, stood, for a
second, poised above the bridge.
Charley passed the blade of his knife through the threads that bound the
bandage about his finger, and the linen rag fell to the floor; and he
rose and folded his arms across his breast.
The bow descended upon the G string. The stranger gave one of those
quick up-strokes with the lowest inch of the horse-hair, followed by a
down-stroke of the whole length of the bow.