The Concert
Philip’s manager had consented, although rather reluctantly, that the
boy should play a night or two before the concert at the house of Lord
Ashden’s friend, the duchess, who had shown him so much kindness upon
his arrival in London. She had gathered together three or four score
of her particular friends, who belonged to the most critical musical
set in London, and when Lord Ashden looked around the room and began to
discern the character of the audience, he glanced rather anxiously at
Philip.
Never before had he been so impressed with the boy’s extreme youth,
and with his entire simplicity and unconsciousness, as he came modestly
forward with his pretty air of being genuinely pleased by the sound of
clapping hands which greeted him; and as he flashed upon the company
one of his sunny smiles the women murmured, “What a little love!” and
the men, many of them hardened concert-goers, drew up their chairs,
prepared to listen with some curiosity to this fragile morsel of
humanity, of whose wonderful playing they had heard such great things
from their hostess.
“He hardly looks as though he had strength enough to handle the bow
through such a difficult selection as he has chosen to begin his
programme with,” said a stout violincellist; “but we shall see.”
Philip played his best, and as usual, after the first bar or two, he
forgot all about himself and his audience, and thought only of the
music before him. The second selection he played without notes, and
with a sympathy and abandon which astonished his hearers; and the final
number of the programme finished, as he lowered his bow and stood for
a moment in the centre of the room, there was a hush of astonishment
and pleasure. Then the applause began, lasting for full five minutes,
while the people gathered around Philip, shaking hands and kissing him,
the older musicians among the first to pay their willing tribute to his
genius.
“He is wonderful--marvellous!” Lord Ashden heard them saying on all
sides. “What a career he has ahead of him!” And in the midst of it
all he felt a warm little hand slipped into his, and Philip’s voice
whispered:
“Come, dear Lord Ashden, let us go home.”
“Didn’t you like all that petting, my dear boy?” Lord Ashden asked in
an amused voice as they rolled away from the musicale in the duchess’
own carriage, which she had insisted upon sending for them.
“I don’t know,” said Philip thoughtfully. “I am glad they like my music
of course, but somehow--a word or two from you, or one of dear Signor
Marini’s funny little grunts of approval, seems to make me ten times
happier. I wish”--he paused a moment and his eyes shone in the darkness
of the carriage--“I wish I could thank you. I pray each night that God
will reward you for all that you have done for me.”
“He has rewarded me,” exclaimed Lord Ashden, “by sending you to be the
comfort and joy of my life.”
The night of the concert came at last, and Philip was by all odds
the calmest and least excited of the party. Lord Ashden had some
misgivings as to the result of this first public appearance in England,
for in spite of the boy’s undoubted success at La Scala he knew that
the audience of a London concert-hall were far more likely to be coldly
critical than the music-loving and excitable Italians. He realized,
too, that upon the success or failure of this rather bold experiment
depended in large measure the young violinist’s future career, and he
confessed secretly to Aunt Delia that he would be relieved and glad
when the evening was over. As for the dear old lady herself, she was
scarcely able to control her excitement, and she kept following Philip
about the house all day with milk-punches and some homoeopathic
pellets which she had been told were excellent for the nerves.
“But Philip has no nerves,” said Lord Ashden, laughing, and baring the
boy’s wrist that Aunt Delia might lay her hand upon the pulse which
was beating with the calmness and regularity of a trip-hammer. As for
Philip, he could only repeat what he had said at Milan:
“I can but play my best, and I hope the audience may like it; at any
rate, I have no fear of breaking down, for I know my score perfectly.”
His cousins were all excitement and affectionate interest, all, that
is to say, except Marion, who continued to maintain her air of haughty
disdain, and once or twice when the others were talking of the concert,
she even yawned perceptibly, and at last left the room.
Philip, try as he would not to care, was deeply wounded by her
behavior, and in his humility he felt that he must be in some way
deserving of her scorn.
“She is so clever,” he thought, “and so perfectly at her ease in a
drawing-room! I suppose that in comparison I must appear very green and
awkward; and yet Rose and Lillie seem to like me. I wonder if they are
only kind to me because they fear to hurt my feelings?”
And thus the poor sensitive boy tormented himself up to the moment when
the carriage appeared at the door to take them to the concert; then,
fortunately for his peace of mind, he began to think of the music which
he was about to play, and this soon drove all other thoughts from his
mind.
Dash had spent the day close at Philip’s heels, and as the evening
approached he seemed to feel that something unusual was to occur; and
when at last the party assembled in the hall, ready to start for the
concert, the little creature’s excitement increased, and he went from
one to the other, begging so earnestly to be taken along that Philip
at last said laughingly:
“I believe that Dash thinks I am going away on another journey, for he
whines precisely as he did when we started for Italy three years ago.
Be a good dog! Down, Dash! You know you cannot go, and, after all, I
will soon be back, you foolish dog!”
But Dash only barked and fidgeted the more, and at last when they were
all in the carriage, he broke away from the servant who was trying to
hold him in the hall, and springing into the coach attempted to creep
under the seat. Philip, however, was too quick for him, and dragging
him forth again carried him back into the house. As they drove down the
street they could hear him howling dismally, and Dr. Norton remarked
laughingly:
“It is fortunate we don’t believe in signs, Philip, or Dash’s howling
would certainly be looked upon as a bad omen.”
They remembered this afterwards, and also that Philip replied in his
clear, sweet voice:
“Dash is a very wise dog, Uncle Frank, and perhaps he had his own
reasons for whining as he did.”
Philip was very quiet during the drive to the concert-hall, which was
quite a long one, and indeed none of the party felt much inclined
toward conversation until Marion said at last:
“Dear me, how solemn and stupid we all are. One would think we were
going to a funeral. I wish it were all over,” she added. “We shall be
so conspicuous, and I hate crowds.”
“Marion!” said her mother reprovingly. And glancing at Philip she was
glad to notice that he had not apparently heeded his cousin’s remark.
“I must have a serious talk with Marion,” said Mrs. Norton to herself.
“She seems to have grown quite thoughtless of the feelings of others of
late, and I am afraid she has wounded Philip several times since her
return. What can have come over her, I wonder?”
And then the carriage drew up before the stage-door, and Philip was
pounced upon by his manager and carried off, while the others slowly
made their way through the crowds which were pouring into the building,
to the box which had been reserved for their party near the stage.
There were to be other performers besides Philip--a celebrated pianist,
a player on the harp, and a popular prima donna; so many attractions
filled the house that even Marion, looking at the brilliant audience,
was forced to acknowledge that it was a great compliment to Philip’s
playing that he should have been asked to appear on such an occasion;
while Lord Ashden felt some nervous apprehension as he remarked several
of the most distinguished musical critics in London in a box near their
own.
Just before Philip’s turn to play came on the programme, a friend
of Lord Ashden sent down from his box in the centre of the house to
suggest that the party should join him there, as a better view of the
whole house and of Philip’s effect upon the audience could be gained at
a greater distance from the stage; so Dr. and Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Seldon
and Lord Ashden, quietly made the change, leaving the girls in charge
of Miss Acton during their absence.
The latter shared with Lillie her nervousness and excitement, and
they were both so full of hopes and fears for Philip that they hardly
gave civil attention to the professor’s wonderful piano gymnastics,
or listened to Madame Lalage when she sang Cherubini’s “Ave” in her
thrilling and matchless voice. And even Marion leaned breathlessly
forward, forgetful for once of herself and her becoming new gown, as
the prima donna’s billowy robes and shimmering satin train swept out of
sight and Philip stepped quietly forth upon the stage.
They need not have feared for him, for he was perfectly composed, and
stood looking curiously about the house, smiling a little and waiting
until the applause which followed the retreating favorite should have
quite died away. He was unknown to the greater part of the audience,
and a murmur went about the house; he was so young, a mere baby,--was
it possible he could play? And then he raised his violin and began.
The people glanced at their programmes: “Bach’s Allemande, Suite
No. 2, in C Major.” Another flutter of surprise, and then gradually
silence, deep and profound, as dreamily and rhythmically the wave-like
accentuation of the mystical melody fell upon the listening ears which
were entranced by the wonderful pathos of the composition as the young
performer rendered it. An intense stillness held the whole house, and
not a note was lost till he finished, and with downcast eyes made
his low, grave salutation, and turned to leave the stage. Before he
vanished a superb bouquet from the duchess was handed him, and his
patroness herself from her box bent forward with sparkling eyes, bowing
and smiling her delighted approval.
The spellbound audience rallied then and deafened itself with applause,
but owing to the length of the bill there were to be no encores; so
the pianist took his place, to be succeeded by the other performers,
and then, after another song by Lalage, Philip returned, and as he
took his place there was a rather quick fluttering of programmes as
people looked quickly to see what they were to hear from the beautiful,
wonderful boy violinist. But “A Study,” with no composer’s name
annexed, gave no clue to what they might expect.
He began with a sweet, soft melody in A, a pathetic lullaby that
seemed, with all its sweetness, to carry a desolate sadness that made
the tears start to many eyes; then the music changed strangely, and
wild, defiant sounds took the place of the unutterably sweet melody;
gradually these new sounds gave way to throbbing, wailing strains,
which told of unfathomable sorrow and hopeless despair. The keen
agony that the music expressed seemed to oppress the audience, and
many of them wept unrestrainedly. Lillie and Miss Acton, feeling
certain that the “Study” was Philip’s own composition, and was the
musical expression of his own thoughts, shrank to the back of the box
to conceal their convulsive weeping. Marion kept her place, but even
she lifted her handkerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes. She could
hardly feel ashamed of her emotion when she saw the impulsive and
music-loving duchess opposite sobbing like a child; but no one is all
evil, and perhaps the music really touched what was good and genuine in
her nature, and elevated her for the time above the arrogance that made
her unlovely in spite of all her grace and beauty.
In another moment the pitiful minor passages that were thrilling the
listeners would have become unbearable, but sweet flashes of sound
began to break through, and the woe melted into a lovely pastoral that,
like a song without words, told the story of a quiet, happy life, with
only the occasional anguish of a dull minor strain that broke upon the
calm like the disturbing intrusion of a haunting, uneasy thought that
could not always be repressed. Once, as he played, he turned his head
slightly and looked fixedly for a moment into his cousins’ box, and the
color burned for an instant in his pale face as he met Marion’s tearful
eyes; but there was no pause in the music, and if any one noticed the
passing emotion, no one understood it. And once again the thunder of
clapping hands passed over the house as the young musician quietly
withdrew, and people turned their programmes to see if he was to play
again.
“Once more,” they murmured, and Lillie and Miss Acton retired again to
the back of the box, where this time they were joined by Marion, to
talk over their cousin’s triumph.