At last, the ladies rose to leave the table.
“As soon, Mrs. Carter, as the gentlemen have had a cigar or so,” said
Mr. Whacker, “we shall have the honor of joining the ladies in the
parlor and of escorting you to the Hall, where we shall have some
music.”
“But when he hears her play!” thought Mary, as she left the room, arm in
arm with her dreaded rival.
“I drink your health,” cried the Herr, dropping down into his chair as
soon as the ladies had left the room. “I drink your very good health,”
said he, filling the Don’s glass. Of course he pronounced the words
after his own fashion.
One would err who supposed that Herr Waldteufel felt any unusual anxiety
as to the physical condition of his neighbor. A decanter of sherry
invariably wrought in his responsive mind a general but quite impartial
interest in the well-being of all his friends. But on this occasion Mr.
Whacker was particularly anxious that some limit should be put to the
expression of that solicitude; and he checked with a glance the zealous
hospitality of Uncle Dick, who was about to replenish the nearly
exhausted decanters.
For this was to be a field day over at the Hall. There was to be a
quintet,—think of that,—and a pint or so more sherry might disable the
’cello.
My grandfather had been looking forward to this glorious occasion with
nervous joy. It had been several years since he had taken part in so
august a performance; and before the first cigars were half burned out
he had begun to fidget and look at his watch. Charley, therefore, was
not long in proposing a move.
“Now, ladies,” said my grandfather, on reaching the parlor, “I, for one,
cannot understand how it is that there are some people who don’t love
music; but there are such people, and very good people they are, too.
Now, this is Liberty Hall, and every one must do as he pleases. We are
going to make some music; but no one need go with us who prefers
remaining here. If there are any couples, for instance,”—and Mr.
Whacker raised his eyes to the ceiling—“who have softer things to say
than any our instruments can produce” (Jones and his girl looked
unconscious), “let them remain and say them. Here is the parlor, there
is the dining room; arrange yourselves as you would. And now, Mrs.
Poythress, will you take my arm and lead the way?”
Jones and Jones’s girl were the first to move, and we were soon on our
way across the lawn; while dark cohorts brought up the rear and covered
the flanks of the merry column.
“To me!” said Mary, when the Don had offered her his arm. “I feel much
honored.” And with a formal bow she rested the tips of her fingers upon
his sleeve.
The irony of her tones grated upon his ear, and he turned quickly and
bent upon her a puzzled though steady gaze.
“Honored?”
That look of honest surprise reassured her woman’s heart, but made her
feel that she had forgotten herself in meeting a courtesy with an
incivility.
They always know just what to do.
Passing her arm farther within his, and leaning upon him with a
coquettish pressure, she looked up with a gracious smile.
“Certainly. Have I not the arm of the primo violino,—the lion of the
evening?”
And the primo violino wondered how on earth he had ever imagined that
she was vexed.
Very naturally, I cannot remember, after the lapse of years, what
quintet they played that evening. All that I distinctly recall is that
it was a composition in which the piano was very prominent. My
grandfather was (as I have, perhaps, said before) as proud of Lucy’s
playing as though she had been his own daughter; and I suspect that he
and the Herr made the selection with a view to showing her off.
Mary thought she had never seen Lucy look so graceful as when, sounding
“A,” she turned upon the piano-stool, and, with her arm extended
backwards and her fingers resting upon the keys, she gave the note to
each of the players in turn; her usually serene face lit with the
enthusiasm of expectancy. It was a truly lovely face,—lovely at all
times, but peculiarly so when suffused with a certain soul-lit St.
Cecilia look it wore at times like this. Alice sparkled, and Mary shone;
but Lucy glowed,—glowed with the half-hidden fire of fervid affections
and high and holy thoughts. Alice was a bounding, bubbling fountain,
Mary a swift-flowing river, Lucy a still lake glassing the blue heavens
in its unknown depths. Wit—imagination—soul.
It chanced that the piano had to open the piece alone, the other
instruments coming in one after another. Nervously smoothing down her
music with both hands, rather pale and tremulous, Lucy began.
“Why,” thought Mary, gazing with still intensity from out the isolated
corner in which she had seated herself,—“why does _he_ look so
anxious?”
For, coming to a rapid run, Lucy had stumbled badly, and the Don was
pulling nervously at his tawny beard. But soon recovering her
self-possession, she executed a difficult passage with ease and
brilliancy. “Brava! brava!” cried he, encouragingly, while the Herr
nodded and smiled. As for my grandfather, a momentary side-flash of
delight was all he could spare the lovely young pianist; for with eyes
intently fixed upon his score, and head bobbing up and down, he was in
mortal dread of coming in at the wrong time. With him the merest nod of
approval, by getting entangled with the nod rhythmic, might well have
introduced a fatal error into his counting, while even an encouraging
smile was not without its dangers.
Mrs. Poythress gave the Don a grateful smile.
“He seems to be taking Lucy under his protection,” thought Mary.
One after another the players came in; first the Don and Herr
Waldteufel, then the second and the viola; and away they went, each
after his own fashion; Charley pulling away with close, business-like
attention to his notes; the Herr calm but smiling good-humoredly, when,
from time to time, he stumbled through rapid passages where his reading
was better than his execution; Mr. Whacker struggling manfully, with
flushed cheeks and eager eyes, and beating time with his feet with
rather unprofessional vigor. As for Lucy, relieved of her embarrassment,
when fire had opened all along the line, she made the Herr proud of his
pupil; while the Don, master of his score and his instrument, kept
nodding and smiling as he played; watching her nimble fingers, during
the pauses of his part, with undisguised satisfaction.
Mary, sitting apart, saw all this. Nor Mary alone.
“He is a goner!” whispered Billy to his girl, in objectionable phrase.
“Oh, yes; _hopelessly_!” looked she.
“Mr. Frobisher, too,—he’s another goner.”
The beloved of William glanced at Charley and bit her lip. Somehow it
seemed comic to every one that Charley should be in love.
Then Billy, folding his arms across his deep chest, and summoning his
mind to a vast generalization: “The fact is, everybody is a goner,” said
he; “as for me—”
His girl placed her finger upon her rosy lip, and reproved his
chattering with a frown that was very, very fierce; but from beneath her
darkling brows there stole, as she raised her eyes to his manly face, a
glance soft as the breath of violets from under a hedge of thorns.
The allegro moderato came to an end with the usual twang twing twang.
“Unt we came out all togedder!” exclaimed the Herr. “Dot is someding
already. Shentlemen und ladies, I tell you a little story, vot you call.
Berlioz was once leading an orchestra, part professionals, part
amateurs. Ven dey vas near de ent of de stucke vot you call morceau,
‘Halt, shentlemens!’ cry Berlioz, rapping on the bulbit-desk, vot you
call. ‘Now, shentlemens amateurs,’ says he, ‘you just stop on dis bar
unt let de oders blay, so dat we all come out togedder.’”
The excellent Herr, after laughing himself to the verge of asphyxiation,
explained that “Berlioz, you unterstant, vas a great vit, vat you call,
unt make many funny words.” It was a peculiarity of our friend
Waldteufel that his pronunciation of English varied with the amount of
water that he had neglected to drink; and as this was an uncertain
quantity, you could never be quite sure whether he would say vas or was,
words or vords. At certain critical moments, too, when his soul stood
vascillating between contentment and thirst, the two systems were apt to
become mixed as above. I will add that I make no attempt at accuracy in
reproducing his dialect, preferring to leave that, in part at least, as
I have done in a parallel case, to the resources of the reader.
The remaining movements of the quintet were played in somewhat smoother
style; but the only one requiring special mention, for our purposes, was
the larghetto, or slow movement. In this number, the technical
difficulties of which were inconsiderable, Lucy’s tender religious
spirit revealed itself most touchingly. It so happened that the composer
had placed this part mainly in the hands of the piano and the first
violin, the other instruments merely giving an unobtrusive
accompaniment. First the violin gave out the theme, and then the piano
made reply.
“It is the communing of two spirits,” felt Mary, in her imaginative way.
Now the piano gave forth its tender plaint, and the violin seemed to
Mary to listen; at one time silent, at another interrupting,—assenting
rather,—breaking into low-muttered interjections of harmonious
sympathy. And then the violin would utter its lament, finding its echo
in the broken ejaculations that rose from beneath Lucy’s responsive
fingers; so, at least, it seemed to Mary.
The quintet and the congratulations to the performers over, Mr. Whacker
took pity on the thirsty Herr and ordered refreshments. Jones, finding
among the rest a glass of double size, filled it and handed it to the
’cellist.
“Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play de big fiddle already.”
Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean; but she had other
things to occupy her thoughts. When the Don rose from his seat and laid
his violin upon the piano, she had been struck with the serenity of his
countenance, whence the music seemed to have chased every cloud. He was
looking for some one. Yes, it was for her. Catching her eye, he filled a
glass, or two, rather, and coming to her side and taking a seat, he
expressed the hope that she had enjoyed the music.
“More than I can express. You have convinced me that I have never heard
any real music before. Do you know, your quintet was as pleasing to the
eye as to the ear? You would have afforded a fine subject for a painter.
Three young men, a lovely girl, and a grandfather, all bound together as
one by the golden chains of harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovely
picture you made.”
“Thanks!”
“Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, so I have paid you, at
best, but one-fifth of a compliment.”
“A vulgar fraction, as it were.”
“Yes,” said she, laughing; then with eyes cast down, and in a hesitating
voice, she added, “I am going to make a confession to you; will you
promise not to think me _very_ foolish?”
“Such an idea, I am sure—”
“But, you know my friends all say I am so very sentimental,—that is to
say, silly. You shake your head, but that is what they call me, and that
is what it means.”
“You do your friends injustice; but give me a specimen, that I may judge
for myself.”
“Do you promise not to agree with my friends?”
“Most solemnly.”
“Well, you must know there is something very pathetic to me about old
age. The sight of an old man sympathizing with the young, hearing up
bravely under the ills of life and his load of years, always touches me
to the heart. Now, you and Mr. Frobisher and Mr. Waldteufel—well, I
need not comment on your appearance. Lucy—well, Lucy was just too
lovely. She had what I call her inspired look, and was simply
beautiful.” And lifting her eyes for a second,—no, a second had been an
age, compared with the duration of that glance so momentary and yet so
intensely questioning,—she flashed him through and through. Through and
through, yet saw nothing. The Don, felt he or not the shock of that
electric glance, sat impassive, spoke no answer, looked no reply. She
raised her eyes again to his. No, his look was not impassive; he was
simply awaiting with interest the rest of her story. That, at least, was
all she could see.
“Where was I?” she began again, driving from her mind, with an effort, a
tumultuous throng of hopes and fears. “Oh I well, you gentlemen handled
your bows gracefully, of course, and all that, and Lucy was
irresistible” (another flash), “of—course; but the central figure of
the picture was Mr. Whacker. Dear Uncle Tom! Isn’t he a grand old man? I
don’t know why it was, but when I saw in the midst of you his snowy head
contrasting so strongly, so strangely, with Lucy’s youthful bloom, with
the manly vigor of the rest, my eyes filled with tears. Was it so very
foolish?” And her eyes, as she lifted them to his, half inquiring, half
deprecatory, were suffused afresh with the divine dew of sympathy.
“Foolish!” exclaimed the Don, with a vehemence so sudden that it made
her start, his nostrils dilating and a dark flush mounting even to his
forehead,—“foolish!” And bending over her he poured down into her
swimming eyes a look so intense and searching that she felt that he was
reading her very heart.
“Thanks!” said he, with abrupt decision. “Thanks!”
Mary breathed quicker, she knew not why. The tension was painful. “Yes,”
said she, rather aimlessly, “and then you all looked so earnest, so
serenely happy, so forgetful of this poor sordid world.”
“Yes,” said he, musingly, “that seems to me the office of music,—to
give rest to the weary, to smooth out the wrinkles from the brain and
brow, to give respite; to enable us, for a time, at least, to forget.”
He seemed to muse for a moment, then turning suddenly to her with a
changed expression: “It was always so,” said he; then looking up
quickly, “Do you like Homer?”
“Homer!” exclaimed she, startled by the abrupt transition. “I cannot say
that he is one of my favorite authors.”
“Do you know, I cannot understand that?”
“He is so very, very old,” pleaded she, in extenuation.
“So is the human heart, of which he was master; so is the ocean, to
which he has been compared,—eternal movement and eternal repose. But
what you said just now, as to the Lethean effect of music, reminded me
of that grand scene in the Iliad, where Ulysses and Phœnix and Ajax go,
as ambassadors of Agamemnon, to Achilles, with offerings and apologies
for the wrong that has been done him. This man, whose heart was full of
indignant shame because of the insults which had been heaped upon
him,—who, though the bravest of the Greeks, had gone apart by the
sea-shore to weep bitter tears,—him they found solacing his sorrows
with music. But a little while ago and he had been ready to strike
Agamemnon dead in the midst of his troops. What a surprise when the poet
draws the curtain, and there flashes upon our astonished eyes the
inexorable, flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons seated with his
friend Patroklus, peacefully singing to his lyre the illustrious deeds
of heroes! What a master-stroke!” cried he, with flashing eyes. “It is
like the sudden bursting upon the view of a green valley in the midst of
barren rocks. And you don’t like Homer?”
“Oh, that is beautiful, really beautiful!” she hastened to say, abashed
at the sentiment she had just uttered. “One often fails to see beauties
till they are pointed out. Won’t you talk to me some day about Homer?”
“Gladly,” said he; and he smiled, then almost laughed aloud.
“Ah, it is really unkind to laugh at me!”
“Not at all. I was laughing to think how little you dream what you are
drawing down upon your head when you ask me to talk to you about Homer.
You see I, too, have a little confession to make.”
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.
“Perhaps I should have said confidence rather than confession; but, upon
second thought—”
“Oh, do tell me!”
He hesitated.
“I shall positively die with curiosity!”
“If there be any danger of that,” said he,—and he put his forefinger
and thumb in his vest-pocket and looked at her and smiled.
“Well?”
“Will you promise not to think me so very, very foolish?” said he,
mimicking her tones of a little while before. And he drew an object from
his pocket and held it up.
“What is it,—a book?”
“Yes, a book;” removing from a much-worn morocco case a small volume.
“Oh, yes, your Testament!”
Mary had not forgotten what I had told of a certain incident that had
occurred in the Don’s rooms in Richmond, and had heedlessly alluded to
it.
“My Testament!” said he, with a quick, suspicious look.
She felt that she had blundered; but Mary Rolfe, like the majority of
her sex, was a woman. “Why, isn’t it a Testament?” asked she,
carelessly; “it has just the look of some of those little English
editions.” And she held out her hand.
“Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it is not a Testament.”
“What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended.
“It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confession is, that I have
carried it in this pocket ever so many years.”
“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested.
“So, you see, when you ask _me_ to talk to you about Homer, you are
getting yourself into trouble, most probably.”
“Let me have it.”
The Don smiled and shook his head.
“What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may not touch it?”
“Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must not go out of my
possession. Here, you hold that lid and I this. No, this way,” added the
Don, rising. He had been seated on her right; but now placing his chair
to her left, he held out the little volume to her, holding the left lid,
together with a few pages, between finger and thumb. What could be his
object in changing his position? Was there something written on the
flyleaf? She gave a quick glance at his face, but instantly checked
herself and broke out into a merry laugh.
“How perfectly absurd!” said she. “We look, for all the world, like two
Sunday-school children reading the same hymn-book! What!” exclaimed
she, with quick interest, and looking up into his face: “The original
Greek?”
“Yes,” replied he, quietly; “no real master-piece can ever be
translated.”
Just then some chords were sounded on the piano, and the Don turned and
looked in that direction. Mary raised her eyes and scanned his face
narrowly. She was reading him afresh by the light he had just cast upon
himself.
For her, being such as she was, this man of surprises had acquired a new
interest.