"We feared that you were not coming, Herr Schubert," said the countess
suavely.
The group had gathered in the music-room.... The storm had ceased, and a
cool breeze came through the window. Outside in the castle grounds dim
lights glimmered.
The young man advanced into the group a little awkwardly, rubbing his
eyes as if waking from a dream.
The baron, standing by the piano, glanced at him sharply under lowered
lids. His lips took on a little smile, not unkind, but full of secret
amusement.
The musician passed him without a glance, and, seating himself at the
piano, threw back his head with an impatient gesture. He turned swiftly
the leaves of music that stood on the rack before him.
"Sing this," he said briefly.
He struck a few chords, and they gathered about him, taking up their
parts with a careless familiarity and skill. It was Haydn's "Creation."
They had sung it many times, but a new power was in it to-night. The
music lifted them. The touch on the keys held the sound, and shaped it,
and filled it with light.
When it was finished they glanced at one another. They smiled; then they
looked at the player. He sat wrapped in thought, his head bowed, his
fingers touching the keys with questioning touch. They moved back
noiselessly and waited. When he was like this, they did not disturb him.
The melody crept out at last, the strange, haunting Hungarian air, with
unrest and sadness and passion and sweetness trembling through it.
The baron started as he heard it. He moved carelessly to the window and
stood with his back to the room, looking out.
The countess looked up with a startled air. She glanced inquiringly
toward her husband. He was leaning forward, a look of interest on his
dark face. The child at his knee shrank a little. Her eyes were full of
a strange light. On the opposite side of the room her sister Marie sat
unmoved, her placid doll eyes resting on the player with a look of
gentle content.
The passionate note quickened. Something uncanny and impure had crept
into it. It raised its head and hissed a little and was gone, gliding
away among the low notes and losing itself in a rustling wave of
sound.... The music trembled a moment and was still; then the passion
burst in a flood upon them. Dark chasms opened; strange, wild fastnesses
shut them in; storm and license and evil held them. Blinding flashes
fell on them. Slowly the player emerged into a wide sunlit place. The
music filled it. Winds blew from the four quarters to meet it, and the
air was full of melody.
The count stirred a little as the last notes fell.
"A strange composition," he said briefly.
The child at his knee lifted her head. She raised a tiny hand and
brought it down sharply, her small face aglow with suppressed anger.
"It was not good!" she said.
The player turned to look at her. His big face worked strangely.
"No, it was not good," he said. "I shall not play that again. But it is
great music," he added, with a little laugh.
The count looked at him shrewdly. He patted the child's trembling hand.
"Now," he said soothingly, "something to clear away the mists! 'Der
Erlkoenig,' We have never had it; bring it out."
Schubert hesitated an instant. He glanced at the child.
"That music--I have it not, Herr Count--I left it in Vienna."
The count moved impatiently.
"Play it from memory," he said.
The musician turned slowly to the piano.
The child's eyes followed him. She shivered a little.
He swung back with a swift gesture, feeling absently in his pockets.
"A piece of tissue-paper," he murmured. He had extracted a small comb
from one of his pockets. He regarded it thoughtfully. "If I had one
little piece of paper--" He looked about him helplessly.
"There is some in the music-rack, Marie. Find it for him," said the
count.
The girl found it and laid it in his hand.
He turned back to the piano, adjusting and smoothing it. His broad back
was an effective screen. The group waited, a look of interest on their
faces.
Suddenly he wheeled about, his hands raised to his mouth, the comb,
thinly covered with tissue-paper, at his lips, and his fat cheeks
distended. His eyes behind the big spectacles glowed portentously.
They gazed at him in astonishment.
He drew a full breath and drove it forth, a lugubrious note. With
scowling brows and set face he darted the instrument back and forth
across his puckered lips. It wailed and shrieked, and out of the noise
and discord emerged, at a galloping trot, "Der Erlkoenig!"
The child, who had been regarding him intently, threw back her head, and
a little laugh broke from her lips. Her face danced. She came and stood
by the player, her hand resting on his knee.
Herr Schubert puffed and blew, and "The Erlking" pranced and thumped.
Now and then he stumbled and fell, and the fugitives flew fast ahead.
The player's face was grave beyond belief, filled with a kind of fat
melancholy, and tinged with tragic intent.
The faces watching it passed from question to amusement, and from
amusement to protest.
"Nein, nein, mein Herr!" said the countess, as she wiped her mild blue
eyes and shook her blond curls. "Nicht mehr! nicht mehr!"
With a deep, snorting sob the sound ceased. The comb dropped from his
lips, and the player sat regarding them solemnly. A smile curved his big
lips.
"Ja," he said simply, "that was great music. I have made it myself, that
music."
With laughter and light words the party broke up. At a touch from the
count the musician lingered. The others had left the room.
The count walked to the open window and stood for a moment staring into
the darkness. Then he wheeled about.
"What was it you played?" he said swiftly.
"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert briefly.
The count looked incredulous.
"It was your own," he said.
"Partly," admitted the musician.
The count nodded.
"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late----"
Schubert shrugged his shoulders.
"I told the child--you heard--I cannot play it again, that music."
The count laughed lightly.
"As you like." He held out a hand. "Good night, my friend," he said
cordially. "You are a strange man."
The grotesque, sensitive face opposite him quivered. The big lips
trembled a little as they opened.
"I am _not_ a strange man," said Schubert vehemently. "That music--it
was--the devil!"
The count laughed again lightly. He held out his hand.
"Good night," he said.