The note sounded was the lower A, produced, if I may be allowed to
enrich my style with a borrowed erudition, by stopping the G string with
the first finger. Whimsical as the idea may seem to a musician, I have
always considered this the noblest tone within the register of the
violin; and such an A I had never before heard. I have already mentioned
the extraordinary acoustical properties of this room, the very air of
which seemed to palpitate, the very walls to tremble beneath the
powerful vibrations. The deep, long-drawn tone ceased, and again the
wrist stood for a moment arched above the bridge. A breathless stillness
reigned throughout the room, while the Don stood there, with pale face,
his dark eyes “in a fine frenzy rolling,”—stood there, one might say,
in a trance, forgetful of his audience, forgetful of self, unconscious
of all else save the violin clasped between chin and breast. Down came
the fingers of the left hand; with them the bow descended, this time
upon all four strings; and four notes leaped forth, crisp, clear, and
sparkling, brilliant as shooting-stars! Then chord after chord; and, in
mad succession, arpeggios, staccatos, pizzicatos, chromatic scales,
octaves, fierce, dizzy leaps from nut to bridge, cries of joy,
mutterings of rage, moans of despair, all were there,—a very
pandemonium of sound!
It was not a composition,—hardly an improvisation, even; for neither
was key sustained nor time observed. It resembled, more than anything
else I can compare it to, the mad carolling of a mocking-bird as he
flaps and sails from the topmost branch of a young tulip poplar to
another hard by, pouring forth in scornful profusion his exhaustless and
unapproachable tide of song, little recking what comes first and what
next,—whether the clear whistle of the partridge, the shrill piping of
the woodpecker, or the gentle plaint of the turtle-dove.
And the mad dancing of the bow went on, amid a silence that was
absolute. But it was a silence like that of a keg of gunpowder, where a
spark suffices to release the imprisoned forces.
The spark came in the shape of an interjection from the deep chest of
Uncle Dick.
But how am I to represent that interjection to posterity?
There came a pause.
“Umgh-u-m-g-h!” grunted our venerable butler. And straightway there
ensued a scene which—
But future ages must first be told precisely what Uncle Dick said; for,
as all Virginians, at least, know, when you limit yourself to reporting
of a man that he said umgh-umgh, you have given a meagre and inadequate,
certainly an ambiguous, interpretation of his sentiments.
Not to go into any refinements, it suffices to say that besides a score
of other umgh-umghs of radically distinct significance, there are
umgh-umghs which mean yes, and umgh-umghs which mean no. For example,
“Dearest, do you love me?” Now the umgh-umgh that may be supposed in
this case is a kind of flexible, india-rubber yes, ranging all the way
from “Perhaps” to “Oh, most dearly!” (but Charley says that it is
umgh-humgh, not umgh-umgh, that means yes;) now follow up your question
with a demonstration as though you would test matters,—_umgh-umgh!_
What a _no_ is there! “Are you crazy? Right out here in the
summer-house! with people strolling all around, and the vines so thin
that—”
Now, Uncle Dick’s umgh-umgh was not at all an umgh-umgh affirmative,
still less an umgh-umgh negative. ’Twas rather an umgh-umgh eulogistic,
as though he said, Words are inadequate to express my feelings. Now, a
less painstaking author than myself would say no more just here; aware
that every Virginian, at least, knows what is meant by the umgh-umgh
eulogistic; but the contemporary reader must pardon me for reminding him
that this book has not been written entirely, or even mainly, for him,
but rather for generations yet unborn,—notably the generations of the
Whackers. I esteem it, therefore, singularly fortunate that my friend
Charley happens to have made an exhaustive study of this same umgh-umgh
language, and especially so that he has been at the pains of elucidating
his subject by means of a musical notation. Know, then, oh, _propinqui
longinqui_!—oh, _manus innumerabiles Whackerorum_!—that the exact
sound uttered by that unapproachable Automedon was:
[Illustration: Carlo Frobisherini. Opus 99.
_Andante sostenuto e scherzando._
_Sotto vocce._ Umgh - umgh!
{A treble clef with the key signature of E major, in 3/4 time. “Umgh”
is a 16th-note low E in the first measure, and “-umgh” in the second
measure is a three-beat E, with a fermata above it.}]
“An andante _scherzando_?” exclaimed my grandfather, on seeing the
notation; “how is that?”
“’Tis because mine Uncle Richard hath neglected the study of thorough
bass; hence he warbleth his native wood-notes wild,” quoth Charley.
But to return to the scene in the Hall. And I beg that the reader will
place himself entirely in my hands, while I endeavor to make him realize
every feature of that scene,—for it really occurred just as he will
find it recorded.
Figure to yourselves, then, my countless readers and admirers, first the
Hall itself, with its lofty ceiling and its spacious, well-waxed floor
of heart-pine so nicely joined that it was a sound-board in itself. At
one end of the room stood a piano; at the other was a vast open
fireplace, in which, supported by tall and glistening andirons, there
glowed a noble fire of hickory logs five feet long. The furniture in the
room was peculiar, consisting of a square table of exceeding lightness,
and chairs that you might toss in the air with your little finger,—all
with a view to the least possible weight upon the floor,—though I must
say that they were often the means of bringing heavy weights in contact
with it. Add to these a lounge of slenderest proportions, upon which my
grandfather loved to recline, pipe in mouth, whenever any music was
going forward; and you have all the furniture that the room possessed.
Of other objects there were absolutely none upon the floor, except four
cases containing the instruments needful to a string quartet; and these
stood each in its own corner, as though on ill terms. The old gentleman
had banished from the Hall even his collection of music, great piles of
which were stowed away in the adjoining room; for he insisted that its
weight would mar the resonance of the Hall. It remains but to add that
upon the walls no painting or engraving was allowed. Their smooth finish
showed no crack,—so that the Herr used to say that the hall, if strung,
would have been a very goot feedle for Bolyphemoos, or some oder of dem
chiant singers to blay on.
So much for the Hall, around which, on the Christmas Eve in question,
were grouped nearly all my grandfather’s slaves old enough to be out on
so cold a night, reinforced by many of Charley’s.
And I am not so sure that the outsiders were not having a merrier time
than the insiders. For every now and then, throughout the evening, my
grandfather might have been seen passing glasses of toddy or eggnog to
one or another of the favorite old servants, as he observed them in the
throng; and Charley and I saw that the rest had no cause to feel
slighted. All had their share,—if not of toddy, at least of that
without which all toddy is a delusion and a shadow. Then the sound of
Jones’s fiddle could not be kept within-doors, and such of them as
despaired of forcing their way through the masses around the windows and
doors had formed rings, where, by the light of the wintry moon, the
champion dancers of the two farms exhibited to admiring throngs what
they knew about the double-shuffle and the break-down; and the solid
earth resounded beneath the rhythm of their brogans. To me, I remember,
they seemed happy, at the time; which goes to show how little I knew
about happiness,—and I believe that they too were under the same
delusion; but their early educations had been neglected.
Happy or wretched, however, let them form a frame, as it were, for the
picture I would conjure up for my reader. The first note drawn forth by
the Don had arrested their attention, and there was a rush for every
spot from which a view could be had of the performer. See them,
therefore, a few of the older ones just inside the door, the less
fortunate craning their necks behind, and upon their faces that rapt
attention which is an inspiration to an artist. See those others who,
huddled upon boxes and barrels piled beneath the windows, are flattening
their noses, one might almost say, against the lower panes. At the
library door stood one or two tidy house-maids. Uncle Dick, alone, stood
near the roaring fire, he assuming that his services were required.
“Hi! what dat?” exclaimed a youngster, when the strange sound first
broke upon his ear; for he could not see the Don from where he stood.
“Heish, boy!” broke in a senior, in stern rebuke; “Don’t you see ’tis de
new gent’mun a-playin’ on the fiddle?” And silence reigned again,—a
silence broken, from time to time, by a low, rippling chuckle of intense
delight, and illumined, one might say, by the whites of an hundred pairs
of wondering eyes.
And now let us glance at the dozen gentlemen who sat within, beginning
with my dear old grandfather.
At the first long-drawn, sonorous note he had sprung to his feet; and
there he stood, with both hands raised and extended as though he
commanded silence. And his countenance! never had I seen it look so
beautiful! A happy smile lit up his noble face, and he seemed to say as
he looked from Charley to me, and from me to Charley, “At last!” And
Charley stood leaning against a corner of the mantel-piece, with his
arms folded, replying to his friend with sympathetic glances. It was
plain to see that he was happy in his old friend’s happiness, but there
was a droll twinkle in his eyes that even he could not suppress, though
he bit his lip. What it meant I could not, of course, divine.
It was a treat to behold the Herr on this occasion. With his forearm
resting on the table, his fingers toying with the stem of his goblet, he
leaned back in his chair and smiled, through his gold-rimmed spectacles,
with a look of profound Germanic content and good nature. Not once did
he remove his benignant eyes from the Don, not even when he raised his
half-full glass to his lips and drained it to the last drop. Even then
he watched, out of the corner of his eye, the fantastic caperings of the
bow and the labyrinthine wanderings of the performer’s fingers; and
slowly replacing his glass upon the table, stroked his long and
straggling beard so softly that he seemed to fear that the sparse hairs
would mar the music by their rattling.
One word will suffice for the jolly, fat, middle-aged gentleman. He sat
with his mouth wide open, tilting back in one of my grandfather’s
skeleton chairs.
Now, that was not safe.
But there is one face that I shall not attempt to describe,—that of
young Jones, the University man, upon whom it flashed, like a
revelation, that he had been, without knowing it, fiddling away for
hours in the presence of an artist. It naturally occurred to Billy that
a huge joke had been perpetrated at his expense; and after the first few
notes, he tried to nerve himself to meet the explosion of laughter that
he momentarily expected. But his furtive glances from side to side
detected no one looking his way,—no symptom of a joke, in fact,—so
that the flush of confusion began to recede, supplanted by a glow of
enthusiasm. I leave it to the reader, then, to imagine the play of
expression on the countenance of this big, manly fellow,—rejoicing in
his strength, and brimful of rollicking humor, loving a joke even at his
own expense, as he stood there before the Don; at one time carried away
by the impetuosity of the performer, at another flushing up to his eyes
when he reflected that, if no one else had served him that turn, he, at
least, had made a fool of himself.
This is tableau No. 1, but, for clearness’ sake, let me retouch its
outlines.
A large room, with a roaring fire at one end, and doors open, Virginia
fashion. In the doors and windows a background—or blackground—of
colored brethren and sisters, exhibiting a breathless delight, all their
teeth, and the largest surface, functionary practicable, of the whites
of their eyes. Within, stands my grandfather, on tiptoe, with
outstretched arms, which wave gently up and down, as, from time to time,
snatches of rhythm drop out of the chaos of chords and runs that are
pouring from his Guarnerius. Next the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman,
tilting back, open-mouthed, in one of Mr. Whacker’s phantom chairs, and
rather near the fire. Then Mr. William Jones himself, who just at this
moment has compressed his lips, and resolved that he will smash his
fiddle and break his bow just so soon as he reaches No. 28, East Lawn,
U. V. Then there is the Herr Waldteufel, smiling through clouded
glasses, but not darkly. Then—to omit half a dozen gentlemen—there was
the inscrutable Charley, leaning, with a certain subdued twinkle in his
eyes, against one end of the mantel-piece, while near the other stood,
in respectful attitude, Uncle Dick, his hands clasped in front of his
portly person, his bald head bent low, his left ear towards the music,
his eyes fixed askance upon the fire to his right.
Midst this scene of perfect stillness stood the Don,—his body swaying
to and fro. The old Guarnerius seemed to be waking from its long
slumber, and, as if conscious that once more a master held it, to be
warming to its work. The music grew madder. At last there came some
fierce chords, then a furious fortissimo chromatic scale of two or three
octaves, with a sudden and fantastic finish of fairy-like
harmonics,—the snarling of a tiger, one might say, echoed by the
slender pipings of a phantom cicada:
[Illustration: Umgh-umgh! {The same clef as the previous illustration.}]