Part III.

... dove il Sol tace.

DANTE

I.

Frau Krause was ill pleased at his unlooked-for reappearance, and did

not scruple to say so. From the condition of disorder in which he found

his room, Maurice judged that it had been occupied, during his absence,

by the entire family. Having been caught napping, Frau Krause carried

the matter off with a high hand: she gave him to understand that his

behaviour in descending upon her thus, was not that of a decent lodger.

Maurice never parleyed with her; ascertaining by a glance that his

books and music had been left untouched, he made his escape from the

pails of water that were straightway brought into evidence, as well as

from her irate assurances that the room would be ready for him in a

quarter of an hour.

He went into the town, and did various small errands necessary to the

taking up anew of the old life. After he had had dinner, and had looked

through the newspapers, the temptation was strong to go to Louise, and

spend the hot afternoon hours at her side. But he resisted; for that

would have been a poor beginning to the sensible way of life they would

have to follow, from now on. Besides, with the certainty of seeing her

again in a very short time, it was not impossible to be patient. No

more uncertainty, no more doubts and fears!--the day for these was

over.--And so, having satisfied himself that his room was still

uninhabitable, he strolled to the Conservatorium, to see what notices

had remained affixed to the notice-board. As he was leaving again, he

met the janitor, and from him learned that his name was down for the

first ADBENDUNTERHALTUNG of the coming month.

In the shadeless street, he paused irresolute. The heat of the

slumbrous afternoon was oppressive; all animation seemed suspended. The

trees in streets and gardens drooped, brownishyellow, and heavy with

dust. The sun met the eyes blindingly, and was reflected from every

house-wall. Maurice went for a walk in the woods. In his pocket he had

a letter, still unread, which he had found waiting for him that day. It

was from his mother, and his eyes slid carelessly over the pages. There

were the usual reproaches for his prolonged silences, the never-failing

reminders that his time in Leipzig would come to an end the following

spring, as well as several details of domestic interest. Then, however,

followed a piece of news, which rallied his attention.

YOU WILL DOUBTLESS BE INTERESTED TO HEAR, she wrote, THAT YOUR FRIEND

THE OLD MUSIC TEACHER IN NORWICH DIED SUDDENLY LAST WEEK. HIS PUPILS

HAD FALLEN OFF GREATLY OF LATE AND WHEN EVERYTHING HAD BEEN SOLD THERE

WAS SCARCELY ENOUGH TO COVER THE FUNERAL EXPENSES. YOUR FATHER THINKS

THAT THOUGH A YOUNG PERSON FROM LONDON OF THE NAME OF SMITH OR SMYTHE

HAS LATELY SET UP THERE AND ATTRACTED MANY OF THE BEST PAYING FAMILIES

YET THE OLD CONNECTION MIGHT BE WORKED UP AGAIN AND IT WOULD BE WORTH

YOUR WHILE TRYING TO DO IT. AT FIRST YOU COULD LIVE AT HOME AND GO OVER

ONCE OR TWICE A WEEK. YOUR FATHER HAS BEEN MAKING INQUIRIES ABOUT A

SUITABLE ROOM.

This news called up a feeling of repugnance in Maurice: it came like a

message from another world; the very baldness of its expression seemed

to throw him back, at one stroke, into the hated atmosphere of his

home. He folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, with such a

conscious hostility to all that his blood-relations did or said, as he

had not felt since the day when, in their midst, he had struggled to

assert his independence. How little they understood him! It was like

them, in their unimaginative dulness, to suppose that they could

arrange his life for him--draw up the lines on which it was to be

spent. He saw himself bound down hand and foot again, to the occupation

he so hated; saw himself striving to oust the young person from London,

just as no doubt his old friend had striven; saw himself becoming

proficient in all the mean, petty tricks of rival teachers, and either

vanquishing or being vanquished, in the effort to earn a living.

However he viewed them, his prospects had nothing hopeful in them. They

were vague, too, to the last degree. On one question alone was his mind

made up: he meant to marry Louise at the earliest possible date.

Whatever else happened, this should come to pass. For the first time,

he thought with something akin to remorse, over the turn affairs had

taken. He had been blind and dizzy with his infatuation, sick for her

to his very marrow--he could only look back on those feverish weeks in

June as on the horrors of a nightmare--and he would not have missed a

single hour of the happy days at Rochlitz. But, none the less, he had

always felt a peculiar aversion to people who allowed their feelings to

get the better of them. Now, he himself was one of them. If only she

were his wife! Had she consented, he would have married her there and

then, without reflection. They might have lived on, just as they were

going to do, and have kept their marriage a secret, reserving to

themselves the pleasure of knowing that their intimacy was legal. At it

was, he must console himself with the thought that, married or not,

they were indissolubly bound: he knew now better than before, that no

other woman would ever exist for him; and surely, in the case of an

all-absorbing passion such as this, the overstepping of conventional

boundaries would not be counted too heavily against them: laws and

conventions existed only for the weak and vacillating loves of the rest

of the world.

Then, however, and almost against his will, the other side of the

question forced itself upon his notice. As the marriage had not already

taken place, as, indeed, Louise chose to evade the subject when he

brought it up, he could not but admit to it would be pleasanter for him

if it were now postponed until he was independent of home-support. His

family would, he knew, bitterly resent his taking the step; and in

regard to them, he was proud. Where Louise was concerned, of course, it

was a different matter: there, no misplaced pride should stand in the

way. She had ample means for her own needs; it was merely a question of

earning enough to keep himself. The sole advantage of the present state

of affairs was, that it might still be concealed; whereas even a secret

marriage implied a possible publicity; it might somehow leak out, and,

in the event of this, he knew that his parents would immediately cut

off supplies. If once he were independent of them, he could do as he

liked. He set his teeth at the thought of it. To no small extent, his

way was mapped out for him. Marrying Louise meant giving up all idea of

returning home. He understood now, more clearly than before, how

unfitted she was for the narrow life that would there be expected of

her. And even--if he had longed for approval and consent, he would

never have had courage to ask her to face the petty, ignoble details of

conventional propriety, which such a sanction implied. No, if he wished

to ensure her happiness, he must secure to her the freer atmosphere in

which she was accustomed to live. He must burn his ships behind him,

and the most satisfactory thing was, that he was able to do it without

a pang.

He racked his brains as to the means of making a livelihood. There was

nothing he would not do. He was more ready to work than ever a labourer

with a starving family at his back. But, having let every possibility

pass before his mind's eye, he was forced to the conclusion that the

only occupation open to him was the one he had come to Leipzig to

escape. He was fit for nothing but to be a teacher. All he could do at

the piano, hundreds of others could do better; his talents as a

conductor were, he had learned, of the meagrest; the pleasing little

songs he might compose, of small value. Yet, if this were the price he

had to pay for making her his wife, he was content to pay it: no

sacrifice was too great for him. And then, to be a teacher here meant

something different from what it meant in England. Here, it was

possible to retain your self-respect--the caste of the class was

another to begin with--and also to remain in touch with all that was

best worth knowing. As a foreigner, he might add to his earnings by

teaching English; but piano-lessons would of necessity be his chief

source of income. They were plentiful enough: Avery Hill supported

herself entirely by them, and Furst kept his family. Of course, though,

this was due to Schwarz: his influence was a key to all doors. Both of

these were favourite pupils; while a melancholy fact, which had to be

faced, was, that he did not stand well with Schwarz. Somehow, they had

never taken to each other: he, perhaps, had had too open an eye for the

master's foibles, and Schwarz had no doubt been aware, from the first,

of his pupil's fatally divided interests. The crown had probably been

set by his ill-considered flight in July. If he wished ultimately to

achieve something, the interest he had forfeited must be regained, cost

what it might. He would work, in these coming months, as never before.

Could he make a brilliant, even a wholly respectable job of the trio he

was to play, it would go far towards reinstating him in Schwarz's good

graces: and he might then venture to approach the master with a request

for assistance. This was the first piece of work that lay to his hand,

and he would do it with all his might. After that, the rest.

There was no time to lose. A mild despair overcame him at the thought

of the intricate sonata, the long, mazy concerto by Hummel, which had

formed his holiday task. In exactly a fortnight from this date, the

vacation came to an end, and, as yet, he did not know a note of them.

Through the motionless heat of the paved streets, he went home, and

turning Frau Krause out of his room, sat down at the piano to scales

and exercises. Not until he felt suppleness and strength coming back to

his fingers, did he allow his thoughts to wander. Then, however, they

leapt to Louise; after this break in his consciousness, he seemed to

have been absent from her for days.

The sun was full on her windows; curtains and blinds were drawn against

it. While he hesitated, still dazzled by the glare of the streets, she

sprang to meet him, laying both hands on his shoulders.

"At last!"

He blinked, and laughed, and held her at arm's length. "At last?--Why,

what does that mean?"

"That I have been waiting for you, and hoping you would come--for

hours."

"But, dearest, I'm too early as it is. It's not six o'clock."

"Yes, I know. But I was so sure you would come sooner,--that you

wouldn't be able to stay away! Oh, the afternoon has been endless; and

the heat was suffocating. I couldn't dress, and I haven't unpacked a

thing."

Now he saw that she was in her dressing-gown, and that the bags and

valises stood in a corner, just as they had been carried up from the

droschke.

With her hands still on his shoulders, she put back her head. A thin

line of white appeared between her lips, and, under their drooped lids,

her eyes shone with a moist brilliance. She looked at him eagerly for

some seconds, and it seemed to him wistfully, too. Then, in an

inexplicable change of mood, she let her arms fall, and turned away.

She had grown pale and despondent. There was only one thing for him to

do: to put his arms round her and draw her to his knee. Holding her

thus, he whispered in her ear words such as she loved to hear. He had

grown skilled in repeating them. Under the even murmur of his voice,

her face grew tranquil; she sank little by little into a state of

well-being; her one fear was that he would cease speaking.

On the writing-table, a gold-faced clock ticked solemnly: its minutes

went by unheeded. Maurice was the first to feel the disillusioning

shudder of reality; simultaneously, the remembrance returned to him of

what he had come intending to tell her.--He loosened her arms.

"Louise!" he said in an altered voice. "Look up, dear!--and let me see

your eyes. You won't believe me, I think, but I came this evening

meaning to talk very sensibly--nothing but common sense, in fact.

There's a great deal I want to say to you. Come, let us be two rational

people--yes? As a beginning, I'll draw up the blinds. The sun's behind

the houses now, and the room is so close."

Louise shrank from the violent, dusty light; and her face, a moment

back rapturously content, took on at once a look of apprehension.

"Not to-night, Maurice--not to-night! It's too ... too hot for common

sense to-night."

He laughed and took her hand. "Be my own brave girl, and help me. You

have only to look at me, as you know, to make me forget everything. And

that mustn't be. We have got to be serious for a little--have you ever

thought, Louise, how seldom you and I have talked seriously together?

There was never time, was there? ... in all these weeks. There was only

time to tell you how much you are to me.--But now--well, so many things

were running in my head this afternoon. This letter from home was the

beginning of them. Read it--this page here, at least--and then I'll

tell you what I've been thinking."

He put the letter into her hand, and she ran her eyes over the page.

But she laid it down without comment.

A fear crossed his mind. "Don't misunderstand it," he said hastily.

"You know that point was settled months ago. There's no question of

going back for me now--and I'm glad of it. I never want to see England

again. But it gave me a lot to think about--how the staying here was to

be managed, and things like that."

He was conscious of becoming somewhat wordy; and as she did not

respond, his uneasiness grew. In his anxiety to make her think as he

did, he clasped his hand over hers.

"I needn't say again, need I, darling, what the past weeks have meant

to me? I'm so grateful to you for them that I could only prove it with

years of my life. But--and don't misunderstand this either, or think I

don't love you more now than ever before--you know I do. But, look at

it as we will, those weeks were play--glorious play, worth half one's

existence, but still only play. They couldn't last for ever. Now we've

come back, and we have to face work and the workaday world--you see

what I mean, I'm sure?"

There was a note of entreaty in his voice. As she still kept silence,

he gave his whole strength to demolishing the mute opposition he felt

in her.

"From now on, dear, we must make up our minds to be two very sensible

people. I've an enormous amount of work to get through, in the coming

months. And at Easter, I shall probably be thrown on my own resources.

But I'll fight my way somehow--here, beside you. We'll live our own

life. Just you and I.--Let me tell you what I propose to do,"--and

here, he laid before her, in their entirety, his plans for winning over

Schwarz, for gaining a foothold, and for making a modest income. "A

good PRUFUNG," he concluded, "and I'll be able to get anything I want

out of him. In the meantime, I've got to make a decent job next month

of the trio--I'm pretty well in his black books, I can guess, for going

off as I did in July. I must work as I've never done before. Each

single day must be mapped out, and nothing allowed to interfere. It's

an undertaking; but you'll help me, won't you, darling?--as only you

can. I've let things go, far too much--I see it now. But it was

impossible--frankly, I didn't care. I only wanted you. Now, it will ...

it must be different. The unrest is gone; you belong to me, and I to

you. We are sure of each other."

"Oh, it's stifling! There's no air in the room."

She rose from his side, and went to the open window, where she stood

with her back to him. As a result of his words, her life seemed

suddenly to stretch before her, just as dry, and dusty, and

commonplace, as the street she looked down on.

"I want to show you, too," he continued behind her, "that you haven't

utterly thrown yourself away. I know how little I can do; but honest

endeavour must count for something. I ask nothing better than to work

for you, Louise--and you know it."

A wave of warm air came in at the window; the dying afternoon turned to

twilight.

"Yes ... and I? What am I to do? What room is there for me in your

plans of work?"

He glanced sharply at her; but she had not moved.

"Louise, dearest! I know that what I say must sound selfish and

inconsiderate. And yet I can't help it. I'm forced to ask you to wait

... merely to wait. And for what? Good Heavens, no one realises it as I

do! I have nothing to offer you, in return--but my love for you. But if

you knew how strong that is--if you knew how happy I am resolved to

make you! Have a little patience, darling! It will all come right in

the end--if only you love me! And you do, don't you? Say once more you

do."

She turned so swiftly that the tail of her dressing-gown twisted, and

fell over on itself.

"Can you still ask that? Have you not had proof enough? Is there an

inch of you that doesn't believe in my love for you? Oh, Maurice! ...

It's only that I'm tired to-night--and restless. I was so wretched at

having to come back. And the heat has got on my nerves. I wish a great

storm would come, and shake the house, and make the branches of the

trees beat against the panes--do you remember? And we were so safe. The

worse the storm was, the closer you held me." She sat down beside him,

on the arm of the sofa. "Such a night seemed doubly wild after the

long, still days that had gone before it--do you remember?--Oh, why had

it all to end? Weren't we happy enough? Or did we ask too much? Why

must time go just the same over happiness and unhappiness alike?" She

got up again, and strayed back to the window. "Days like those will

never--CAN never--come again. Even as it is, coming back has made a

difference. Could you even yesterday have spoken as you do to-day? Was

there any room then for common sense between us? No, we were too happy.

It was enough to know we were alive."

"Be reasonable, darling. I am as sorry as you that these weeks are

over; but, glorious as they were, they couldn't last for ever. And

trust me; we shall know other days just as happy.--But if, because I

talk like this, you imagine I don't love you a hundred times better

even than yesterday--but you don't mean that! You know me better, my

Rachel!"

"Yes. Perhaps you're right--you ARE right. But I am right, too."

She came back, and sat down on the sofa again, and propped her chin on

her hand.

"You're tired to-night, dear--that's all. To-morrow things will look

different, and you'll see the truth of what I say. At night, things get

distorted----"

"No, no, one only really sees in the dark," she interrupted him.

--"but in the morning, one can smile at one's fears. Trust me, Louise,

and believe in me. All our future happiness depends on how we act just

now."

"Our future happiness ... yes," she said slowly. "But what of the

present?"

"Isn't it worth while sacrificing a brief present to a long future?"

She threw him a quick glance. "You talk like an orthodox Christian,

Maurice," she said, and added: "The present is here: it belongs to us.

The future is so unclear--who knows what it will bring us!"

"And isn't it just for that very reason that I speak as I do? If

everything lay clear and straight before us, do you think I should

bother about anything but you? It's the uncertainty of the whole thing

that troubles me. But however vague it is, I can tell you one thing

that will happen. And you know, dearest, what that is--the only

ambition I have left: to make you my wife at the earliest possible

moment."

She gazed at him meditatively.

"Why wouldn't you let me have my way at first?" he cried. "Why were you

against it? We could have kept it a secret: no one need have known a

thing about it. And I should never have asked you to go to England, or

to see my people. Call it narrow, if you must, I can't help it; it's

the only thing for us to do. Why won't you agree? Tell me what you have

against it. Listen!" He knelt down and put his arms round her. "We have

still a fortnight--that's time enough. Let us go to England to-morrow,

and be married without a word to anyone--in the first registrar's

office we find. Only marry me!"

"Would it make you love me more?"

She looked at him intently, turning the whole weight of her dark glance

upon him.

"You!" he said. "You to ask such a thing! You with these eyes ... and

this hair! And these hands!--I love every line of them ... You can't

understand, can you, you bundle of emotions, that I should care for you

as I do, and yet be able to talk soberly? It seems to you a man's way

of loving--and poor at that. But if you imagine I don't love you all

the more for what you have sacrificed for me--no, you didn't say that,

I know, but it comes to the same thing in the end."

She made no answer; and a feeling of discouragement began to creep over

him. He rose to his feet.

"A man who loves a woman as I love you," he said almost violently, "has

only one wish--can have only one. I shall never rest or be thoroughly

happy till you consent to marry me. That you can refuse as you do,

seems to prove that you don't care for me enough."

She put her arms round his neck: her wide sleeves fell back, leaving

her arms bear. "Maurice," she said gently, "why must you worry

yourself?--You know if you are set on our marrying, I'll give way. But

I don't want to be married--not yet. There's plenty of time. It's only

a small matter now; it doesn't seem as if it could make any difference;

and yet it might. The sense of being bound; of some one--no, of the law

permitting us to love each other ... no, Maurice, not yet.--Listen! I'm

older and wiser than you, and I know. Happiness like this doesn't come

every day. Instead of brooding and hesitating, one must seize it while

it's there: it's such a slippery thing; it's gone before you know it.

You can't bind it fast, and say it shall last so and so long. We have

it now; don't let us talk and reason about it.--Oh, to-day, I'm

nervous! Let me make a confession. As a child I had

presentiments--things I foresaw came true, and on the morning of a

misfortune, I've felt such a load on my chest that I could hardly

breathe. Well, to-day, when I came into this room again, it seemed as

if two black wings shut out the sunlight; and I was afraid. The past

weeks have been so unreasonably happy--such happiness mustn't be let

go. Help me to hold it; I can't do it alone. Don't try to make it fast

to the future; while you do that, it's going--do you think one can draw

out happiness like a thread? Oh, help me!--don't let any thing take it

from us. And I will give up everything to it. Only you must always be

beside me, Maurice, and love me. Don't let anything come between us!

For my sake, for my sake!"

In the face of this outpouring, his own opinions seemed of little

matter; his one concern was to ward off the tears that he saw were

imminent. He held her to him, stroked her hair, and murmured words of

comfort. But when she raised her head again, her eyelids were reddened,

as though she had actually wept.

"Now I know you. Now you are my own again," she whispered. "How could I

know you as you were then? I'd never seen you like that--seen you cold

and sensible."

He looked down at her without speaking, in a preoccupied way.

She touched his face with her finger. "Here are lines I don't know--I

see them now for the first time--lines of reason, of common sense, of

all that is strange to me in you."

He caught her hand, continuing to gaze at her with the same expression

of aloofness. "I need them for us both. You have none."

Her lips parted in a smile. Then this faded, and she looked at him with

eyes that reminded him of an untamed animal, or of a startled child.

"Mine ... still mine!" she said passionately.--And in the hours it took

to reassure her, his primly reasoned conclusions were blown like chaff

before the wind.

II.

The next fortnight flew by; and familiar faces began to appear again.

The steps and inner vestibule of the Conservatorium became a lounge for

seeing acquaintances. In the cafe at the corner, the click of billiard

balls was to be heard from early morning on.

Maurice looked forward to meeting his friends, with some embarrassment.

It was unlikely that the events of the summer had remained a secret;

for that, there was a clique in the place over-much on the alert for

scandal, to which unfortunately the name of Louise Dufrayer lent itself

only too readily. He could not decide what position to take up, with

regard to their present intimacy; to flaunt it openly, to be pointed at

as her lover, would for her sake be repugnant to him. It made him

reject an idea he had revolved, of begging her to let him announce

their engagement: for, in the present state of things, the word

"BRAUTIGAM" had an evil sound. Eventually, he came to the conclusion

that they must be more cautious than they had ever been, and give

absolutely no food for talk.

One day, in the GRASSISTRASSE, he came upon a little knot of men he

knew. And it was just as he supposed; the secret was a secret no

longer. He saw it at once in their treatment of him. There was a spice

of deference in their manner: and their looks expressed curiosity,

envious surprise, even a kind of brotherly welcome. After this, Maurice

changed his mind. The only course open to him was to brazen things out.

He would not wait for his friends to show him what they thought; he

would be beforehand with them.

A chance soon offered of putting his intentions into practice. On

entering Seyffert's one afternoon, he espied Dove, who had just

returned. Dove sat alone at a small table, reading the TAGEBLATT;

before him stood a cup of cocoa. When he saw Maurice, he raised the

newspaper a trifle higher, so that it covered the level of his eyes.

But Maurice went across the room, and touched him on the shoulder. Dove

dropped his shield, and sprang up, exclaiming with surprise. Maurice

sat down beside him, and, by dint of a little wheedling, put Dove at

his ease. The latter was bubbling over with new experiences and future

prospects. It seemed that in Peterborough, Dove's native town, the art

of music was taking strides that were nothing short of marvellous. To

hear Dove talk, the palm for progress must be awarded to Peterborough,

over and above all the other towns of Great Britain; and he was agog

with plans and expectations. During the holidays, he had held

conversations with several local magnates, all of whom expressed

themselves in favour of his scheme for founding a school of music, and

promised him their support. Dove had returned to Leipzig in a brand-new

outfit, and a hard hat; his studies were coming to an end in spring,

and he began to think already of casting the skin of Bohemianism.

Maurice listened to him leniently--even drew Dove out a little. But he

kept his eye on the clock. In less than half an hour, he would be with

Louise; from some corner of the semidarkened room, she would spring

towards him, and throw herself into his arms.

The majority of the classes were not yet assembled, when one day, a

rumour rose, and spreading, ran from mouth to mouth. Those who heard it

were at first incredulous; as, however, it continued to make headway,

they whistled to themselves, or vented their surprise in a breathless

"ACH!" Later in the day, they stood about in groups, and excitedly

discussed the subject. Ten of Schwarz's most advanced pupils had left

the master for the outsider named Schrievers. At the head of the list

stood Furst.

The Conservatorium, royally endowed and municipally controlled, held to

its time-honoured customs with tenacity. The older masters laboured to

uphold tradition, and such younger ones as were progressively inclined,

had not the influence to effect a change. Unattached teachers were

regarded with suspicion--unless they happened to be former pupils of

the institution, in which case it was assumed that they carried out its

precepts. There had naturally always been plenty of others as well; but

these were comparatively powerless: they could give their pupils

neither imposing certificates, nor gala public performances, such as

the PRUFUNGEN, and, for the most part, they flourished unknown. This

was previous to the arrival of Schrievers. It was now about a year and

a half ago that his settling in Leipzig had caused a flutter in musical

circles. Then, however, he had been forgotten, or at least remembered

only at intervals, when it was heard that he had caught another fish,

in the shape of a renegade pupil.

Schrievers was a burly, red-bearded man, still well under middle age,

and possessed of plenty of push and self-confidence. It soon transpired

that he was an out-and-out champion of modern ideas in music; for, from

the first, he was connected with a leading paper, in which he made his

views known. He had a trenchant pen, and, with unfailing consistency,

criticised the musical conditions of Leipzig adversely. The progressive

LISZTVEREIN, of which he was soon the leading spirit, alone escaped;

the opera, bereft of Nikisch, and the Gewandhaus, under its gentle and

aged conductor, were treated by him with biting sarcasm. But his chief

butt was the Conservatorium, and its ancient methods. He asserted that

not a jot of the curriculum had been altered for fifty years; and its

speedy downfall was the sole result to be expected and hoped for. The

fact that, at this time, some seven hundred odd students were enrolled

on its books went far to discredit this pious hope; but, nevertheless,

Schrievers harped always on the same string; and just as perpetual

dropping wears a stone, so his continued diatribes ate into emotional

and sensitive natures. He began to attract a following, and,

simultaneously, to make himself known as a pupil of Liszt. This brought

him a fresh batch of enemies. Even a small German town is seldom

without its Liszt-pupil, and in Leipzig several were settled, none of

whom had ever heard of Martin Schrievers. They refused to admit him to

their jealous clique. In their opinion, he belonged to that goodly

class of persons, who, having by hook or by crook, contrived to spend

an hour in the Abbe of Weimar's presence, afterwards abused the sacred

narre of pupil. He was hated by these chosen few with more vigour than

by the conservative pedagogues, who, naturally enough, saw the ruin of

art in all he did.

Various reasons were given for his success, no one being willing to

believe that it was due to his merits as a teacher. Some said that he

recognised in a twinkling the weak points of the individual with whom

he had to deal. He humoured foibles, was tender of self-conceit. He

also flattered his pupils by giving them music that was beyond their

powers of execution: those, for instance, who had worked long and with

feeble interest at Czerny, Dussek and Hummel, were dazzled at the

prospect of Liszt and Chopin, which was suddenly thrust beneath their

eyes. Other ill-wishers believed that his chief bait was the musical

SOIREES he gave when a famous pianist came to the town. By virtue of

his journalistic position, he was personally acquainted with all the

great; they visited at his house, and his pupils had thus not merely

the opportunity of getting to know artists like Rubinstein and

d'Albert, and of hearing them play in private, but, what was more to

the point, of themselves taking part in the performance, and perhaps

receiving a golden word from the great man's lips. And though no huge

parchment scroll was forthcoming on the termination of one's studies,

yet Schrievers held the weapon of criticism in his hand, and, at the

first tentative public appearance of the young performer, could make or

mar as he chose. He lived on good terms, too, with his fellow-critics,

so that wire-pulling was easy--incomparably more so than were the

embarrassing visits, open to any snub, which were common if one was

only a pupil of the Conservatorium, and which, in the case of the

ladypupils, included costly bouquets of flowers.

Among those who had deserted Schwarz were some, like Miss Martin,

malcontents, who had flitted from place to place, and from master to

master, in the perpetual hope of discovering that ideal teacher who

would estimate them at their true worth. These were radiantly satisfied

with the change. Miss Martin bore, wherever she went, an octave-study

by Liszt, and flaunted it in the faces of her friends: and Miss Moses,

who had been under Bendel, could not say two sentences without throwing

in: "That Chopin ETUDE I studied last," or: "The Polonaise in E flat

I'm working at;" for, beforehand, she too had been a humble performer

of Haydn and Bertini. James had the prospect of playing a Concerto by

Liszt--forbidden fruit to the pupils of the Conservatorium--in one of

the concerts of the LISZTVEREIN, and was sure, in advance, of being

favourably criticised. Boehmer wished to specialise in Bach, and if

Schwarz set himself against one thing more than another, it was a

one-sided musical taste: within the bounds of classicism, the master

demanded catholic sympathies; those students who had romantic leanings

towards Chopin and Schumann, were castigated with severely classical

compositions; and, vice versa, he had insisted on Boehmer widening his

horizon on Schubert and Mendelssohn. And there were also several

others, who, having been dragged forward by Schwarz, from inefficient

beginnings, now left him, to write their acquired skill to Schrievers'

credit. Furst was the greatest riddle of all. It was he who, on

subsequent concert-tours, was to have extended the fame of the

Conservatorium; he was the show pupil of the institution, and, in the

coming PRUFUNGEN, was to have distinguished himself, and his master

with him, by playing Beethoven's Concerto in E flat.

Other teachers besides Schwarz had been forsaken for the new-comer, but

in no case by so large a body of students. They bore their losses

philosophically. Bendel, one of the few masters who spoke English--it

was against the principles of Schwarz to know a word of it: foreign

pupils had to learn his language, not he theirs--Bendel, frequented

chiefly by the American colony, was of a phlegmatic temperament and not

easily roused. He alluded to the backsliders with an ironical jest,

preferring to believe that they were the losers. But Schwarz was of a

diametrically opposite nature. In the short, thickset man, with the

all-seeing eyes, and the head of carefully waved hair, just streaked

with grey--a head at once too massive and too fine for the clumsy

body--in Schwarz, dwelt a fierce and indomitable pride. His was one of

those moody, sensitive natures, quick to resent, always on the look-out

for offence. He was ever ready to translate things into the personal;

for though he had an overweening sense of his own importance, there was

yet room in him for a secret doubt; and with this doubt, he, as it

were, put other people to the test. The loss of the flower of his flock

made him doubly unsure; he felt himself a marked man, for Bendel and

other enemies to jeer at. Aloud, he spoke long and vehemently, as if

mere noisy words would heal the wound. And the pupils who had remained

faithful to him, gathered all the more closely round him, and burned as

he did. If wishes could have injured or killed, Furst's career would

then and there have come to an end: his ingratitude, his treachery, and

his lack of moral fibre, were denounced on every hand.

One day, at this time, Maurice entered Schwarz's room. The class was

assembled; but, although the hour was well advanced, no one had begun

to play. The master stood at the window, with his back to the

grass-grown courtyard. He was haranguing, in a strident voice, the

three pupils who sat along the wall. From what followed, Maurice

gathered that that very afternoon Schwarz had been informed of the loss

of four more pupils; and though, as every one knew, he had hitherto not

set much store by any of them, he now discovered latent talent in all

four, and was, at the same time, exasperated that such nonentities

should presume to judge him.

To infer from the appearance of those present, the storm had raged fora

considerable period. And still it went on. After the expiry of a

further interval, Krafft who, throughout, had sat shading his eyes with

his hand, woke as though from sleep, yawned heartily, stretched himself

and, taking out his watch, studied it with profound attention. For the

first time, Schwarz was checked in his flow of words; he coughed,

fumbled for an epithet, then stopped, and, to the general surprise,

motioned Krafft to the piano.

But Heinrich was in a bad mood. He stifled another yawn before

beginning, and played in a mechanical way.

Schwarz had often enough made allowance for this pupil's varying moods;

he was not now in the humour to do so.

"HALT!" he cried before the first page was turned. "What in God's name

is the meaning of this? Do you come here to read from sight?"

Krafft continued to play as if nothing had been said.

"Do you hear me?" thundered Schwarz.

"It's impossible," said Krafft, and proceeded.

"BARMHERZIGER GOTT!--" The master's short neck reddened, and twisted in

its collar.

"Give me music I care to play, and I'll show you how it should be done.

I can make nothing of this," answered Krafft.

Schwarz strode up to the piano, and swept the volume from the rack; it

fell with a crash on the keys and on Krafft's hands, and effectually

hindered him from continuing.

What had gone before was as a summer shower to a deluge. With his arms

stiffly knotted behind his back, Schwarz paced the floor with a tread

that shook it. His steely blue eyes flashed with passion; the veins

stood out on his forehead; his large, prominent mouth gaped above his

tuft of beard; he struck ludicrous attitudes, pouring out, meanwhile,

without stint--for he had soon passed from Krafft's particular case of

insubordination to the general one--pouring out the savage anger and

deep-felt injury that had accumulated in him. Finally, he invited the

class to rise and leave him, there and then. For what, in God's name,

were they waiting? Let them up and away, without more ado!

On receiving the volume of Beethoven on his fingers, Krafft

straightened out the pages, and taking down his hat from its peg, left

the room, with movements of a calculated coolness. But only a pupil of

Bullow's might take such a liberty; the rest had to assist quietly at

the painful scene. Maurice studied his finger nails, and Dove did not

once remove his eyes from the leg of the piano. They, at least, knew

from experience that, in time, the storm would pass; also that it

sounded worse, than it actually was. But a new-comer, a stout Bavarian

lad, with hair cut like Rubinstein's, who was present at the lesson for

the first time, was pale and frightened, and sat drinking in every word.

Towards the end of the hour, when quiet was re-established, one's

inclination was rather to escape from the room and be free, than to sit

down to play something that demanded coolness and concentration. Dove,

who was not sensitive to externals, came safely through the ordeal; but

Maurice made a poor job of the trio in which he had hoped to excel.

Schwarz did not even offer to turn the pages. This, Beyerlein, the

new-comer, did, in a nervous desire to ingratiate himself; but he was

still so flustered that, at a critical moment, he brought the music

down on the keys. Schwarz said nothing; wrapped in the moody silence

that invariably followed his outbursts, he hardly seemed aware that

anyone was playing. After two movements of the trio, he signed to

Beyerlein to take his turn, and proffered no comment on Maurice's work.

Maurice would have hurried away, without a further word, had he not

already learned the early date of his performance. He knew, too, that

if the practical side of the affair--rehearsals with string players,

and so on--was not satisfactorily arranged, he would be blamed for it.

So he reminded Schwarz of the matter. From what ensued, it was plain

that the master still bore him a grudge for absconding in summer.

Schwarz glared coldly at him, as if unsure to what Maurice alluded; and

when the latter had recalled the details of the case to his mind, he

said rudely: "You went your way, Herr Guest. Now I go mine." He

commenced to turn the leaves of his ponderous note-book, and after

Maurice had stood for some few minutes, listening to Beyerlein trip and

stumble through Mozart, he felt that, for this day at least, he could

put up with no more, and left the class.

III.

Shaking all disagreeable impressions from him, he sped through the

fading light of the September afternoon.

This was the time--it was six o'clock--at which he could rejoin Louise

with a free mind. It was the exception for him to go earlier, or at

other hours; but, did he chance to go, no matter when, she met him in

the same way--sprang towards him from the window, where she had been

sitting or standing, with her eyes on the street.

"I believe you watch for me all day long," he said to her once.

On this particular afternoon, when he had used much the same words to

her, she put back her head and looked up at him, with a pale, unsmiling

face.

"Not quite," she answered slowly. "But I have a fancy, Maurice--a

foolish, fancy--that once you will come early--in the morning--and we

shall have the whole day together again. Perhaps even go away somewhere

... before summer is quite over."

"And I promise you, dearest, we will. Just let me get through the next

fortnight, and then I shall be freer. We'll take the train, and go back

to Rochlitz, or anywhere you like. In the meantime, take more care of

yourself. You are far too pale. You will go out tomorrow, yes?--to

please me?"

But this was a request he had often made, and generally in vain.

Since the afternoon of their return, Louise had made no further attempt

to stem or alter circumstance. She accepted Maurice's absences without

demur. But one result was, that her feelings were hoarded up for the

few hours he passed with her: these were then a working-off of emotion;

and it seemed impossible to cram enough into them, to make good the

starved remainder of the day.

Maurice was vaguely troubled. He was himself so busy at this time, and

so full of revived energy, that he could not imagine her happy, living

as she did, entirely without occupation. At first he had tried to

persuade her to take up her music again; but she would not even

consider it. To all his arguments, she made the same reply.

"I have no real talent. With me, it was only an excuse--to get away

from home."

Nor could he induce her to renew her acquaintance with people she had

known.

"Do you know, I once thought you didn't care a jot what people said of

you?" It was not a very kind thing to say; it slipped out unawares.

But she did not take it amiss. "I used not to," she answered with her

invincible frankness. "But now--it seems--I do."

"Why, dearest? Aren't you happy enough not to care?"

For answer, she took his face between her hands, and looked at him with

such an ill-suppressed fire in her eyes that all he could do was to

draw her into his arms.

His pains for her good came to nothing. He took her his favourite

books, but--with the exception of an occasional novel--Louise was no

reader. In those he brought her, she seldom advanced further than the

first few pages; and she could sit for an hour without turning a leaf.

He had never seen her with a piece of sewing or any such feminine

employment in her hands. Nor did she spend time on her person; as a

rule, he found her in her dressing-gown. He had to give up trying to

influence her, and to become reconciled to the fact that she chose to

live only for him. But on this September day, after the unpleasant

episode with Schwarz, he had a fancy to go for a walk; Louise was

unwilling; and he felt anew how preposterous it was for her to spend

these fine autumn days, in this half-dark room.

"You are burying yourself alive--just as you did last winter."

She laid her hand on his lips. "No, no!--don't say that. Now I am

happy."

"But are you really? Sometimes I'm not sure." He was tired himself this

evening, and found it difficult to be convinced. "It troubles me when I

think how dull it must be for you. Dearest, are you--can you really be

happy like this?"

"I have you, Maurice."

"But only for an hour or two in the twenty-four. Tell me, what do you

think of?"

"Of you."

"All that time? Of poor, plain, ordinary me?"

"You are mine," she said with vehemence, and looked at him with what he

called her "hungry-beast" eyes.

"You would like to eat me, I think."

"Yes. And I should begin here; this is the bit of you I love best"--and

before he knew what she was going to do, she had stooped, and he felt

her teeth in the skin of his neck.

"That's a strange way of showing your love," he said, and involuntarily

put his hand to the spot, where two bluish-red marks had appeared.

"It's my way. I want you--I WANT you. I want to feel that you're

mine--to make you more mine than you've ever been. I wish I had a

hundred arms. I would hold you with them all, and never let you go."

"But, dearest, one would think I wanted to go. Do you really believe if

I had my own way, I should be anywhere but here with you?"

"No.--I don't know.--How should I know?"

"Doubts?--beloved!"

"No, no, not doubts. It's only--oh, I don't know what it is. If you

could always be with me, Maurice, they wouldn't come. For what I never

meant to happen HAS happened. I have grown to care too much--far too

much. I want you, I need you, at every moment of the day. I want you

never to be out of my sight."

Maurice held her at arm's length, and looked at her. "You can say

that--at last!" And drawing her to him: "Patience, darling. Just a

little patience. Some day you will never be alone again."

"I do have patience, Maurice. But let me be patient in my own way. For

I'm not like you. I have no room in me now for other things. I can't

think of anything else. If I had my way, we should shut ourselves up

alone, and live only for each other. Not share it, not make it just a

part of what we do."

"But man can't live on nectar and honey alone. It wouldn't be life."

"It wouldn't be life, no. It would be more than life."

Some of the evening shadows seemed to invade her face. Her expression

was childishly pathetic. He drew her to his knee.

"I should like to see you happier, Louise--yes, yes, I know!--but I

mean perfectly happy, as you were sometimes at Rochlitz. Since we came

back, it has never been just the right thing--say what you like."

"If only we had never come back!"

"If you still think so, darling, when I've finished here, we'll go away

at once. In the meantime, patience."

"Oh, I don't mean to be unreasonable!" But her head was on his

shoulder, his arms were round her; and in this position, nothing

mattered greatly to her.

Patience?--yes, there was need for him to exhort her to patience. It

ate already into her soul as iron bands eat into flesh. The greater

part of her life was now spent in practising it. And for sheer loathing

of it, she turned over, on waking, and kept her eyes closed, in an

attempt to prolong the night. For the day stretched empty before her;

the hours passed, one by one, like grey-veiled ghosts. Yet not for a

moment had she harboured his idea of regular occupation; she knew

herself too well for that. In the fever into which her blood had worked

itself she could settle to nothing: her attention was centred wholly in

herself; and all her senses were preternaturally acute. But she

suffered, too, under the stress of her feeling; it blunted her, and

made her, on the one hand, regardless of everything outside it, on the

other, morbidly sensitive to trifles. She waited for him, hour after

hour, crouched in a corner of the sofa, or stretched at full length,

with closed eyes.

Long before it was time for him to come, she was stationed at the

window. She learned to know the people who appeared in the street

between the hours of four and six so accurately that she could have

described them blindfold. There was the oldfaced little girl who

delivered milk; there was the postman who emptied into his canvas

receptacle, the blue letter-box affixed to the opposite wall; the

student with the gashed face and red cap, who lived a couple of doors

further down, and always whistled the same tune; the big Newfoundland

dog that stalked majestically at his side, and answered to the name of

Tasso--she knew them all. These two last hours were weighted with lead.

He came, sometimes a poor half-hour too soon, but usually not till past

six o'clock. Never, in her life, had she waited for anyone like this,

and, towards the end of the time, a sense of injury, of more than

mortal endurance, would steal through her and dull her heart towards

him, in a way that frightened her.

When, at length, she saw him turn the corner, when she had caught and

answered his swift upward glance, she drew back into the shadow of the

room, and hid her face in her hands.

Then she listened.

He had the key of the little papered door in the wall. Between the

sound of his step on the stair, and the turning of the key in the lock,

there was time for her to undergo a moment of suspense that drove her

hand to her throat. What if, after the tension of the afternoon, her

heart, her nerves--parts of her over which she had no control--should

not take their customary bound towards him? What if her pulses should

not answer his? But before she could think her thought to the end, he

was there; and when she saw his kind eyes alight, his eager hands

outstretched, her nervous fears were vanquished. Maurice hardly gave

himself time to shut the door, before catching her to him in a long

embrace. And yet, though she did not suspect it, he, too, had a twinge

of uncertainty on entering. Her bodily presence still affected him with

a sense of strangeness--it took him a moment to get used to her again,

as it were--and he was forced to reassure himself that nothing had

changed during his absence, that she was still all his own.

When the agitation of these first, few, speechless minutes had

subsided, a great tenderness seized Louise; freeing one hand, she

smoothed back his hair from his forehead, with movements each of which

was a caress. As for him, his first impetuous rush of feeling was

invariably followed by an almost morbid pity for her, which, in this

form, was a new note in their relation to each other, or a harking back

to the oldest note of all. When he considered how dependent she was on

him, how her one desire was to have him with her, he felt that he could

never repay her or do enough for her: and, whatever his own state of

mind previous to coming, when once he was there, he exerted himself to

the utmost, to cheer her. It was always she who needed consolation;

and, by means of his endearments, she was petted back to happiness like

a tired child.

In his efforts to take her out of herself, Maurice told her how he had

spent the day: where he had been, and whom he had met--every detail

that he thought might interest her. She listened, in grateful silence,

but she never put a question. This at an end, he returned once more, in

a kind of eternal circle, to the one subject of which she never

wearied. He might repeat, for the thousandth time, how dear she was to

him, without the least fear that the story would grow stale in the

telling.

And once here, amidst the deep tenderness of his words, he felt her

slowly come to life again, and unfold like a flower. After the long,

dead day, Louise was consumed by a desire to drain such moments as

these to the dregs. She did not let a word of his pass unchallenged,

and all that she herself said, was an attempt to discover some spasm of

mental ecstasy, which they had not yet experienced. Sometimes, the

feeling grew so strong that it forced her to give an outward sign.

Slipping to her knees, she gazed at him with the eyes of a faithful

animal. "What have I done to make you look at me like that?" asked

Maurice, amazed.

"What can I do to show you how I love you? Tell me what I can do."

"Do?--what do you want to do? Be your own dear self--that's all, and

more than enough."

But she continued to look beseechingly at him, waiting for the word

that might be the word of her salvation.

"Haven't you done enough already, in giving yourself to me?" he asked,

seeing how she hung on his lips.

But she repeated: "What can I do? Let me do something. Oh, I wish you

would hurt me, or be unkind to me!"

He tried to make her understand that he wished for no such humble

adoration, that, indeed, he could not be happy under it. If either was

to serve the other, it was he; he asked nothing better than to put his

hands under her feet. But he could neither coax her nor laugh her out

of her absorption: she had the will to self-abasement; and she remained

unsatisfied, waiting for the word he would not speak.

Once or twice, during these weeks, they went out in the evening, and,

in the corner of some quiet restaurant, took a festive little meal.

But, for the most part, she preferred to stay at home. She was not

dressed, she said, or she was tired, or it was too hot, or it had

rained. And Maurice did not urge her; for, on the last occasion, the

evening had been spoiled for him by the conduct of some people at a

neighbouring table; they had stared at Louise, and whispered remarks

about her. At home, she herself prepared the supper, moving indolently

about the room, her dressing-gown dragging after her, from table to

cupboard, and back again, often with a pause at his side, in which she

forgot what she had set out for. Maurice disputed each trifling service

with her; he could only think of Louise as made to be waited on, slow

to serve herself.

"Let me do it, dearest."

She had risen anew to fetch something. Now she stood beside him, and

put her arms round his neck.

"What can I do for you? Tell me what I can do," she said, and crushed

his head against her breast.

He loosened her fingers, and drew her to his knee. "What do you want me

to say, dear discontent? Do?--you were never meant to do anything in

this world. Your hands were made to lie one on top of the other...so!

Look at them! Most white and most useless!"

"There are things not made with hands," she answered obscurely. She let

him do what he liked; but she kept her face turned away; and over her

eyes passed a faint shadow of resignation.

But this mood also was a transient one; hours followed, when she no

longer sought and questioned, but when she gave, recklessly, in a wild

endeavour to lose the sense of twofold being. And before these

outbreaks, the young man was helpless. His past life, and such

experience as he had gathered in it, grew fantastic and unreal, might

all have belonged to some one else: the sole reality in a world of

shadows was this soft human body that he held in his arms.

Point by point, however, each of which wounded, consciousness fought

itself free again. Such violent extremes of emotion were, in truth,

contrary to his nature. They made him unsure. And, as the pendulum

swung back, something vital in him made protest.

"Sometimes, it seems as if there were something else ... something

that's not love at all ... more like hate--yes, as if you hated me ...

would like to kill me."

Her whole body was moved by the sigh she drew.

"If I only could! Then I should know that you were mine indeed."

"Is it possible for me to be more yours than I am?"

"Part of you would never be mine, though we spent all our lives

together."

He roused himself from his lethargy. "How can you say that?--And yet I

think I know what you mean. It's like a kind of rage that comes over

one--Yes, I've felt it, too. Listen, darling!--there are things one

can't say in daylight. I, too, have felt ... sometimes ... that in

spite of all my love for you--I mean our love for each other--yet there

was still something, a part of you, I had no power over. The real you

is something--some one I don't really know in spite of all the kisses.

Yes"--and the more he tried to find words for what he meant, the more

convinced he grew of its truth. "Nothing keeps us apart; you love me,

are here in my arms, and yet ...yet there's a bit of you I can't

influence--that is still strange to me. How often I have to ask you why

you look at me in a certain way, or what you are thinking of! I never

know your thoughts; I've never once been able to read them; you always

keep something back.--Why is it, dear? Is it my fault? If I could just

once get at your real self--if I knew that once, only once, in all

these weeks, you had been mine--every bit of you--then ... yes, then, I

believe I would be satisfied to ... to--I don't know what!"

He had spoken in an even, monotonous voice, almost more to himself than

to her. Now, however, he was forced to the opposite extreme of anxious

solicitude. "No, no, I didn't really mean it. Darling! ... hush!--don't

cry like that. I didn't know what I was saying; it isn't true, not a

word of it."

She had flung herself across him; her own elemental weeping shook her

from head to foot. He realised, for the first time, the depth and

strength of it, now that it, as it were, went through him, too.

Gathering her to him, he made wild and foolish promises. But nothing

soothed her: she wept on, until the dawn crept in, thinly grey, round

the windows. But when it grew so light that the objects in the room

were recovering their form, she fell asleep, and he hardly dared to

breathe, for fear of disturbing her.

By day, the sensations he had tried to express to her seemed the

figments of the night. He needed only to be absent from her to feel the

old restlessness tug at his heart-strings. At such moments, it seemed

to him ridiculous to torment himself about an infinitesimal flaw in

their love, and one which perhaps existed only in his imagination. To

be with her again was his sole desire; and to feel her cheek on his, to

be free to run his hands through her exciting hair, belonged, when he

was separated from her, to that small category of things for which he

would have bartered his soul.

One evening, towards the end of September, Louise watched for him at

the window. It had been a warm autumn day, rich in varying lights and

shades. Now it was late, nearly half-past six, and still he had not

come: her eyes were tired with staring down the street.

When at last he appeared, she saw that that he was carrying flowers.

Her heart, which, at the sight of him, had set up a glad and violent

beating, settled down again at once, to its normal course. She knew

what the flowers meant: in a spirit of candour, which had something

disarming in it, he invariably brought them when he could not stay long

with her; and she had learned to dread seeing them in his hand.

In very truth, he was barely inside the room before he told her that he

could only stay for an hour. He was to play his trio the following

evening, and now, at the last moment, the 'cellist had been taken ill.

He had spent the greater part of the afternoon looking for a

substitute, and having found one, had still to interview him again, to

let him know the time at which Schwarz had appointed an extra rehearsal

for the next day.

Maurice had mentioned more than once the date of his playing; but it

had never seemed more to Louise than a disturbing outside fact, to be

put out of mind or kissed away. She had forgotten all about it, and the

knowledge of this overcame her disappointment; she tried to atone, by

being reasonable. Maurice had steeled himself against pleadings and

despondency, and was grateful to her for making things easy. He wished

to outdo himself in tender encouragement; but she remained evasive: and

since, in spite of himself, he could not hinder his thoughts from

slipping forward to the coming evening, he, too, had moments of

preoccupied silence.

When the clock struck eight, he rose to go. In saying goodnight, he

turned her face up, and asked her had she decided if she were coming to

hear him play.

It was on her direct lips to reply that she had not thought anything

about it. A glance at his face checked her. He was waiting anxiously

for her answer: it was a matter of importance to him. Her previous

sense of remissness was still with her, hampering her, making her

unfree; and for a minute she did not know what to say.

"Would you mind much if I asked you not to come?" he said as she

hesitated.

"No, of course not," she hastened to respond, glad to be relieved of

the decision. "If you would rather I didn't."

"It's a fancy of mine, dearest--foolish, I know--that I shall get on

better if you're not there."

"It's all right. I understand."

When he had gone, she returned to her place at the window. It was a

fine night: there was no moon; but the stars glittered furiously in the

inky-blue sky, a stretch of which was visible above the gardens. The

vastness of the night, the distance of sky and stars, made her shiver.

Leaning her wrists on the cold, moist sill, she looked down into the

street; it was not very far; but a jump from where she was, to the

pavement, would suffice to put an end to every feeling. She was very

lonely; no one wanted her. Here she might stand, at this forlorn post,

for hours, for the whole night; no one would either know or care.--And

her feeling of error, of unfreedom and desolation grew so hard to bear

that, for fear she should actually throw herself down, she banged the

window to, with a crash that resounded through the street.

But there was something else at work in her to-night, which she could

not understand. She struggled with it, as one struggles with a

forgotten melody, which hovers behind the consciousness, and will not

emerge.

Except for the light thrown by a small lamp, the room was in shadow.

She went slowly back to the sofa. On the way she trod on the roses;

they had been knocked down and forgotten. She picked them up, and laid

them on the cushioned seat beside her. They were dark crimson, and gave

out a strong scent: Maurice had seldom brought her such beautiful

roses. She sat with her elbows on her knees, her hands closed and

pressed to her cheeks, as though she could only think with her muscles

at a strain. In memory, she went over what he had said, reflected on

what his words meant, and strove, honestly, to project herself into

that part of his life, of which she knew nothing. But it was not easy;

for one thing, the smell of the roses was too strong; it seemed to

hinder her imagination. They had the scent that only deep red roses

have--one which seems to come from a distance, from the very heart of

cool, pure things--and more and more, she felt as if something within

her were trying to find vent in it, something that swelled up,

subsided, and mounted again, with what was almost a physical effort. It

had been the truth when she told him that she understood; but it had

touched her strangely all the same: for it had let her see into an

unsuspected corner of his nature. He, too, then, had a cranny in his

brain, where such fancies lodged--such an eccentric, artist fancy, or

whim, or superstition--as that, out of several hundred people, a single

individual could distract and disturb. He ... too!

The little word had done it. Now she knew--knew what the roses had been

trying to tell her. And as if invisible hands had touched a spring in

her brain, thereby opening some secret place, the memory of a certain

hour returned to her, returned with such force that she fell on her

knees, and pressed her face to the seat of the sofa. On the floor

beside her lay the roses. Why, oh why, had he needed to bring them to

her, on this night of all others?

On the day she remembered, they had been lavished over the room-one

June evening, two years ago. And ever afterwards, the scent of

blood-red roses had been associated for her with one of the sweet,

leading themes in Beethoven's violin concerto. There was a special

concert that night at the Conservatorium; the hall was filled to the

last place. She waited with him in the green-room, until his turn came

to play. Then she went into the hall, and stood at the back, under the

gallery. Once more, she was aware of the stir that ran through the

audience, as Schilsky walked down the platform. Hardly, however, had he

drawn his bow across the strings, when she felt a touch on her arm, and

a Russian, who was an intimate friend of his, beckoned her outside.

There, he told her that he had been sent to ask her to leave the hall;

and they smiled at each other, in understanding of the whim.

Afterwards, she learned how, just about to step on to the platform,

Schilsky had had a presentiment that things would go wrong if she

remained inside. In his gratitude, and in the boyish exultation with

which success filled him, he had collected all the roses, and wantonly

pulled them to pieces. Red petals fell like flakes of red snow; and,

crushed and bruised, the fragile leaves had yielded a scent, tenfold

increased.

While it lasted, the vision was painfully intense: on returning to

herself, she was obliged to look round and think where she was. The

lamp burned steadily; the dull room was just as she had left it. With a

cry, she buried her face in the cushions again, and held her hands to

her ears.

More, more, and more again! She was as hungry for these memories as a

child for dainties. She was starved for them. And now, dead to the

present, she relived the past happy hours of triumph and excitement,

not one of which had hung heavy, in each of which her craving for

sensation had been stilled. She saw herself as she had then been,

proud, secure, unspeakably content. Forgotten words rang in her ears,

words of love and of anger, words that were like ointment and like

knives. Then, not a day had been empty or tedious; life was always

highly coloured, and there was neither pleasure nor pain that she had

not tasted to the full. Even the suffering she had gone through, for

his sake, was no longer hateful to her. Anything--anything rather than

this dead level of monotony on which she had fallen.

When, finally, she raised her head, she might, for all she knew, have

been absent for days. Things had lost their familiar aspect; she had

once more lived right through the great experience of her life. Putting

her hands to her forehead, she tried to force her thoughts back to

reality. Then, stiffly, she rose from her knees. In doing so, she

touched the roses. With a gesture that was her real awakening, she

caught them up and pressed them to her face. It was a satisfaction to

her that fingers and cheeks were pricked by their thorns. She was

conscious of wishing to hurt herself. With her lips on the cool buds,

she stammered broken words: "Maurice--my poor Maurice!" and kissed the

flowers, feeling as if, in some occult way, he would be aware of her

kisses, of the love she was thus expending on him.

For, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, she was sensible of a great

compassion for him; and with each pressure of her lips to the roses,

she implored his forgiveness for her unpremeditated desertion. She

called to mind his tenderness, his unceasing care of her, and, closing

her eyes, stretched out her arms to him, in the empty room. Already she

began to live for the following evening, when he would come again. Now,

only to sleep through as many as she could of the hours that separated

them! She would be to him the next night, what she had never yet been:

his own rival in fondness. And as a beginning, she crossed the room,

and put the fading roses in a pitcher of water.

IV.

Towards seven o'clock the following evening, Maurice loitered about the

vestibule of the Conservatorium. In spite of his attempt to time

himself, he had arrived too early, and his predecessor on the programme

had still to play two movements of a sonata by Beethoven.

As he stood there, Madeleine entered by the street-door.

"Is that you?" she asked, in the ironical tone she now habitually used

to him. "You look just as if you were posing for the John in a Rubens

Crucifixion.--Feel shaky? No? You ought to, you know. One plays all the

better for it.--Well, good luck to you! I'll hold my thumbs."

He went along the passage to the little green-room, at the heels of his

string-players. On seeing them go by, it had occurred to him that he

might draw their attention to a passage in the VARIATIONS, with which

he had not been satisfied at rehearsal that day. But when he caught

them up, they were so deep in talk that he hesitated to interrupt. The

'cellist, a greasy, little fellow with a mop of touzled hair, was

relating an adventure he had had the night before. His droll way of

telling it was more amusing than the long-winded story, and he himself

was more tickled by it than was the violinist, a lanky German-American

boy, with oily black hair and a pimpled face. Throughout, both tuned

their instruments assiduously, with that air of inattention common to

string-players.

Meanwhile, the sonata by Beethoven ran its course. While the

story-teller still smacked his lips, it came to an end, and the

performer, a tall, Polish girl, with a long, sallow, bird-like neck,

round which was wound a piece of black velvet, descended the steps.

Behind her was heard the applause of many hands. As this showed no sign

of ceasing, Schwarz, who had come out of the hall by a lower door, bade

her return and bow her thanks. At his words, the girl burst into tears.

"NA, NA, NA!" he said soothingly. "What's all this about? You did

excellently."

She seized his hand and clung to it. The 'cellist ran to fetch water;

the other two young men were embarrassed, and looked away.

Here, however, several friends burst into the room, and bore Fraulein

Prybowski off. Schwarz gave the signal, the stringplayers picked up

their instruments, and the little procession, with Maurice at its head,

mounted the steps to the platform.

Although before an audience for the first time in his life, Maurice had

never felt more composed. Passing by the organ, and the empty seats of

the orchestra, he descended to the front of the platform, where two

grand pianos stood side by side; and, as he went, he noted that the

hall was exceptionally well filled. He let down the lid of the piano to

the peg for chambermusic; he lowered the piano-chair, and flicked the

keys with his handkerchief. And Schwarz, sitting by him, to turn the

pages of the music, felt so sure of this pupil's coolness that he

yawned, and stroked the insides of his trouser-legs.

Maurice was just ready for the start, when the 'cellist, who was

restless, discovered that the stand which had been placed for him was

insecure; rising from his scat, he went to fetch another from the back

of the platform. In the delay that ensued, Maurice looked round at the

audience. He saw innumerable heads and faces, all turned expectantly

towards him, like lines of globular fruits. His eye ranged

indifferently over the occupants of the front seats--strange faces,

which told him nothing--until his attention was arrested by a face

almost directly beneath him, in the second row. For the flash of a

second, he thought he knew the person to whom it belonged, and

struggled to recall a name. Then, almost as swiftly, he dismissed the

idea. It was, however, a face of that kind which, once seen, is never

forgotten--a frog-like face, with protruding eyes, and the frog's

expressive leer. Somewhere, not very long ago, this face had been

before him, and had stared at him in the same disconcerting manner--but

where? when? In the few seconds that remained, his brain worked

furiously, sped back in desperate haste over all the likely places

where he might have seen it. And a restaurant evolved itself; a table

in a secluded corner; chrysanthemums and their acrid scent; a screen,

round which this repulsive face had peered. It had fixed them both,

with such malevolence that it had destroyed his pleasure, and he had

persuaded Louise to go home. His memory was now so alert that he could

recall the man's two companions as well.

The scene built itself up with inconceivable rapidity. And while he was

still absorbed by it, Schwarz raised a decisive hand. It was the signal

to begin; he obeyed unthinkingly; and was at the bottom of the first

page before he knew it.

Throughout the whole of the opening movement, he was not rightly awake

to what he was doing. His fingers, like well-drilled soldiers, went

automatically through their work, neither blundering nor forgetting;

but the mind which should have controlled them was unable to

concentrate itself: he heard himself play as though he were listening

to some one else. He was only roused by the burst of applause that

succeeded the final chords. As he struck the first notes of the ANDANTE

WITH VARIATIONS, he nerved himself for an effort; but now, as if it

were the result of his previous inattention, an odd uneasiness beset

him; and his beginning to weigh each note as he played it, his fingers

hesitated and grew less sure. Having failed, through over-care, in the

rounding of a turn, he resolved to let things go as they would, and his

thoughts wander at will. The movements of the trio succeeded one

another; the VARIATIONS ceased, and were followed by the crisp gaiety

of the MINUET. The lights above his head were reflected in the shining

ebony of the piano; regularly, every moment or two, he was struck by

the appearance of Schwarz's broad, fat hand, which crossed his range of

vision to turn a leaf; he meditated absently on a sharp uplifting of

this hand that occurred, as though the master were dissatisfied with

the rhythm--the 'cellist's fault, no doubt: he had been inexact at

rehearsal, and, this evening, was too much taken up with his own

witticisms beforehand, to think about what he had to do. And thus the

four divisions of the trio slipped past, separated by a disturbing

noise of hands, which continued to seem as unreal to Maurice as

everything else. Only as the last notes of the PRESTISSIMO died away,

in the disappointing, ineffectual scales in C major, with which the

trio closed--not till then did he grasp that the event to which he had

looked forward for many weeks was behind him, and also that no one

present knew less of how it had passed off than he himself.

With his music in his hand, he turned to Schwarz, to learn what success

he had had, from the master's face. According to custom, Schwarz shook

hands with him; he also nodded, but he did not smile. He was, however,

in a hurry; the old: white-haired director had left his seat, and stood

waiting to speak to him. Both 'cellist and violinist had vanished on

the instant; the audience, eager as ever at the end of a concert to

shake off an imposed restraint, had risen while Maurice still played

the final notes; and, by this time, the hall was all but empty.

He slowly ascended the platform. Now that it was over, he felt how

tired he was; his very legs were tired, as though he had walked for

miles. The green-room was deserted; the gas-jet had been screwed down

to a peep. None of his friends had come to say a word to him. He had

really hardly expected it; but, all the same, a hope had lurked in him

that Krafft would perhaps afterwards make some sign--even Madeleine.

As, however, neither of them appeared, he seemed to read a confirmation

of his failure in their absence, and he loitered for some time in the

semi-darkness, unwilling to face the dispersing crowd. When at length

he went down the passage, only a few stragglers remained. One or two

acquaintances congratulated him in due form, but he knew neither well

enough to try to get at the truth. As he was nearing the street-door,

however, Dove came out of the BUREAU. He made for Maurice at once; his

manner was eager, his face bore the imprint of interesting news.

"I say, Guest!" he cried, while still some way off. "An odd

coincidence. Young Leumann is to play this very same trio next week. A

little chap in knickerbockers, you know--pupils of Rendel's. He is said

to have a glorious LEGATO--just the very thing for the VARIATIONS."

"Indeed?" said Maurice with a well-emphasised dryness. His tone nudged

Dove's memory.

"By the way, all congratulations, of course," he hastened to add.

"Never heard you play better. Especially the MENUETTO. Some people

sitting behind me were reminded of Rubinstein."

"Well, good-night, I'm off," said Maurice, and, even as he spoke, he

shot away, leaving his companion in some surprise.

Once out of Dove's sight, he took off his hat and passed his hand over

his forehead. Any slender hope he might have had was now crushed; his

playing had been so little remarkable that even Dove had been on the

point of overlooking it altogether.

Louise threw herself into his arms. At last! she exulted to herself.

But his greeting had not its usual fervour; instead of kissing her, he

laid his face against her hair. Instantly, she became uncertain. She

did not quite know what she had been expecting; perhaps it had been

something of the old, pleasurable excitement that she had learnt to

associate with an occasion like the present. She put back her head and

looked at him, and her look was a question.

"Yes. At least it's over, thank goodness!" he said in reply.

Not knowing what answer to make to this, she led him to the sofa. They

sat down, and, for a few minutes, neither spoke. Then, he did what on

the way there, he had imagined himself doing: laid his head on her lap,

and himself placed her hands on his hair. She passed them backwards and

forwards; her sense of having been repulsed, yielded, and she tried to

change the current of his thoughts.

"Did you notice, Maurice, as you came along, how full the air was of

different scents to-night?" she asked as her cool hands went to and

fro. "It was like an evening in July. I was at the window trying to

make them out. But the roses were too strong for them; for you see--or

rather you have not seen--all the roses I have got for you--yes, just

dark red roses. This afternoon I went to the little shop at the corner,

and bought all they had. The pretty girl served me--do you remember the

pretty girl with the yellow hair, who tried to make friends with you

last summer? You like roses, too, don't you? Though not as much as I

do. They were always my favourite flowers. As a child, I used to

imagine what it would be like to gather them for a whole day, without

stopping. But, like all my wishes then, this had to be postponed, too,

till that wonderful future, which was to bring me all I wanted. There

were only a few bushes where I lived; it was too dry for them. But the

smell of them takes me back--always. I have only to shut my eyes, and I

am full of the old extravagant longings--the childish impatience with

time, which seemed to crawl so slowly ... even to stand still."

"Tell me all about it," he murmured, without raising his head.

She smiled and humoured him.

"I like flowers best for their scents," she went on. "No matter what

beautiful colours they have. A camelia is a foolish flower; like a

blind man's face--the chief thing is wanting. But then, of course, the

smell must remind one of pleasant things. It's strange, isn't it, how

much association has to do with pleasure?--or pain. Some things affect

me so strongly that they make me wretched. There's music I can't listen

to; I have to put my hands to my ears, and run away from it; and all

because it takes me back to an unhappy hour, or to a time of my life

that I hated. There are streets I never walk through, even words I

dread to hear anyone say, because they are connected with some one I

disliked, or a day I would rather not have lived. And it is just the

same with smells. Wood smouldering outside!--and all the country round

is smoky with bush fires. Mimosa in the room--and I can feel the sun

beating down on deserted shafts and the stillness of the bush. Rotting

leaves and the smell of moist earth, and I am a little girl again, in

short dresses, standing by a grave--my father's to which I was driven

in a high buggy, between two men in black coats. I can't remember

crying at all, or even feeling sorry; I only smelt the earth--it was in

the rainy season and there was water in the grave.--But flowers give me

my pleasantest memories. Passion-flowers and periwinkles--you will say

they have no smell, but it's not true. Flat, open passionflowers--red

or white--with purplish-fringed centres, have a honey-smell, and make

me think of long, hot, cloudless days, which seemed to have neither

beginning nor end. And little periwinkles have a cool green smell; for

they grew along an old paling fence, which was shady and sometimes even

damp. And violets? I never really cared for violets; not till ... I

mean ... I never ..."

She had entangled herself, and broke off so abruptly that he moved. He

was afraid this soothing flow of words was going to cease.

"Yes, yes, go on, tell me some more--about violets."

She hastened to recover herself. "They are silly little flowers. Made

to wither in one's dress ... or to be crushed. Unless one could have

them in such masses that they filled the room. But lilac, Maurice,

great sprays and bunches of lilac-white and purple--you know, don't

you, who will always be associated with lilac for me? Do you remember

some of those evenings at the theatre, on the balcony between the acts?

The gallery was so hot, and out there it seemed as if the whole town

were steeped in lilac. Or walking home--those glorious nights--when

some one was so silent ... so moody--do you remember?"

At the peculiar veiled tone that had come into her voice; at this

reminder of a past day of alternate rapture and despair, so different

from the secured happiness of the present; at the thought of this

common memory that had built itself up for them round a flower's scent,

a rush of grateful content overcame Maurice, and, for the first time

since entering the room, he looked up at her with a lover's eyes.

Safe, with her arms round him, he was strong enough to face the worst.

"How good you are to me, dearest! And I don't deserve it. To-night, you

might just have sent me away again, when I came. For I was in a

disagreeable mood--and still am. But you won't give me up just yet for

all that, will you? However despondent I get about myself? For you are

all I have, Louise--in the whole world. Yes, I may as well confess it

to you, to-night was a failure--not a noisy, open one but all the same,

it's no use calling it anything else."

He had laid his head on her lap again, so did not see her face. While

he spoke, Louise looked at him, in a kind of unwilling surprise.

Instinctively, she ceased to pass her hands over his hair.

"Oh, no, Maurice," she then protested, but weakly, without conviction.

"Yes--failure," he repeated, and put more emphasis than before on the

word. "It's no good beating about the bush.--And do you realise what

it--what failure means for us, Louise?"

"Oh, no," she said again, vaguely trying to ward off what she foresaw

was coming. "And why talk about it to-night? You are tired. Things will

seem different in the morning. Shut your eyes again, and lie quite

still."

But, the ice once broken, he felt the need of speaking--of speaking out

relentlessly all that was in him. And, as he talked, he found it

impossible to keep still; he paced the room. He was very pale and very

voluble, and made a clean breast of everything that troubled him; not

so much, however, with the idea of confessing it to her, as of easing

his own mind. And now, again, he let her see into his real self, and,

unlike the previous occasion, it was here more than a glimpse that she

caught. He was distressingly frank with her. She heard now, for the

first time, of the foolish ambitions with which he had begun his

studies in Leipzig; heard of their gradual subsidence, and his humble

acceptance of his inferiority, as well as of his present fear that,

when his time came to an end, he would have nothing to show for it--and

under the influence of what had just happened, this fear grew more

vivid. It was one thing, he made clear to her, and unpleasant enough at

best, to have to find yourself to rights as a mediocrity, when you had

hoped with all your heart that you were something more. But what if,

having staked everything on it, you should discover that you had

mistaken your calling altogether?

"To-night, you see, I think I should have been a better chimney-sweep.

The real something that makes the musician--even the genuinely musical

outsider--is wanting in me. I've learnt to see that, by degrees, though

I don't know in the least what it is.--But even suppose I were

mistaken--who could tell me that I was? One's friends are only too glad

to avoid giving a downright opinion, and then, too, which of them would

one care to trust? I believe in the end I shall go straight to Schwarz,

and get him to tell me what he thinks of me--whether I'm making a fool

of myself or not."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," Louise said quickly.

It was the first time she had interrupted him. She had sat and followed

his restless movements with a look of apprehension. A certain board in

the floor creaked when he trod on it, and she found herself listening,

each time, for the creaking of this board. She was sorry for him, but

she could not attach the importance he did to his assumed want of

success, nor was she able to subdue the feeling of distaste with which

his doubtings inspired her. It was so necessary, too, this outpouring;

she had never felt curious about the side of his nature which was not

the lover's side. Tonight, it became clear to her that she would have

preferred to remain in ignorance of it. And besides, what he said was

so palpable, so undeniable, that she could not understand his dragging

the matter to the surface: she had never thought of him but as one of

the many honest workers, who swell the majority, and are not destined

to rise above the crowd. She had not dreamed of his considering himself

in another light, and it was painful to her now, to find that he had

done so. To put an end to such embarrassing confidences, she went over

to him, and, with her hands on his shoulders, her face upturned, said

all the consoling words she could think of, to make him forget. They

had never yet failed in their effect. But to-night too much was at work

in Maurice, for him to be influenced by them. He kissed her, and

touched her cheek with his hand, then began anew; and she moved away,

with a slight impatience, which she did not try to conceal.

"You brood too much, Maurice ... and you exaggerate things, too. What

if every one took himself so seriously?--and talked of failure because

on a single occasion he didn't do himself justice?"

"It's more than that with me, dear.--But it's a bad habit, I know--not

that I really mean to take myself too seriously; but all my life I have

been forced to worry about things, and to turn them over."

"It's unhealthy always to be looking into yourself. Let things go more,

and they'll carry you with them."

He took her hands. "What wise-sounding words! And I'm in the wrong, I

know, as usual. But, in this case, it's impossible not to worry. What

happened this evening seems a trifle to you, and no doubt would to

every one else, too. But I had made a kind of touchstone of it; it was

to help to decide the future--that hideously uncertain future of ours!

I believe now, as far as I'm concerned, I don't care whether I ever

come to anything or not. Of course, I should rather have been a

success--we all would!--but caring for you has swallowed up the

ridiculous notions I once had. For your sake--it's you I torment myself

about. WHAT is to become of us?"

"If that's all, Maurice! Something will turn up, I'm sure it will. Have

a little patience, and faith in luck ... or fate ... or whatever you

like to call it."

"That's a woman's way of looking at things."

He was conscious of speaking somewhat unkindly; but he was hurt by her

lack of sympathy. Instead, however, of smoothing things over, he was

impelled, by an unconquerable impulse, to disclose himself still

further. "Besides, that's not all," he said, and avoided her eyes.

"There's something else, and I may just as well make a clean breast of

it. It's not only that the future is every bit as shadowy to-night as

it has always been: I haven't advanced it by an inch. But I feel

to-night that if I could have been what I once hoped to be--no, how

shall I put it? You know, dear, from the very beginning there has been

something wrong, a kind of barrier between us hasn't there? How often

I've tried to find out what it is! Well, to-night I seem to know. If I

were not such an out-and-out mediocrity, if I had really been able to

achieve something, you would care for me--yes, that's it!--as you can't

possibly care now. You would have to; you wouldn't be able to help

yourself."

Her first impulsive denial died on her lips; as he continued to speak,

she seemed to feel in his words an intention to wound her, or, at

least, to accuse her of want of love. When she spoke, it was in a cool

voice, as though she were on her guard against being touched too deeply.

"That has nothing whatever to do with it," she said. "It's you

yourself, Maurice, I care for--not what you can or can't do."

But these words added fuel to his despondency. "Yes, that's just it,"

he answered. "For you, I'm in two parts, and one of them means nothing

to you. I've felt it, often enough, though I've never spoken of it till

to-night. Only one side of me really matters to you. But if I'd been

able to accomplish what I once intended--to make a name for myself, or

something of that sort--then it would all have been different. I could

have forced you to be interested in every single thing I did--not only

in the me that loves you, but in every jot of my outside life as well."

Louise did not reply: she had a moment of genuine despondency. The

staunch tenderness she had been resolved to feel for him this evening,

collapsed and shrivelled up; for the morbid self-probing in which he

was indulging made her see him with other eyes. What he said belonged

to that category of things which are too true to be put into words: why

could not he, like every one else, let them rest, and act as if they

did not exist? It was as clear as day: if he were different, the whole

story of their relations would be different, too. But as he could not

change his nature, what was the use of talking about it, and of turning

out to her gaze, traits of mind with which she could not possibly

sympathise? Standing, a long white figure, beside the piano, she let

her arms hang weakly at her sides. She did not try to reason with him

again, or even to comfort him; she let him go on and on, always in the

same strain, till her nerves suddenly rebelled at the needless

irritation.

"Oh, WHY must you be like this to-night?" she broke in on him. "Why try

to destroy such happiness as we have? Can you never be content?"

From the way in which he seized upon these words, it seemed as if he

had only been waiting for her to say them. "Such happiness as we have!"

he repeated. "There!--listen!--you yourself admit it. Admit all I've

been saying.--And do you think I can realise that, and be happy? No,

I've suffered under it from the first day. Oh, why, loving you as I do,

could I not have been different?--more worthy of you. Why couldn't I,

too, be one of those favoured mortals ...? Listen to me," he said

lowering his voice, and speaking rapidly. "Let me make another

confession. Do you know why to-night is doubly hard to bear? It's

because--yes, because I know you must be forced--and not to-night only,

but often--to compare me what I am and what I can do--with ... with ...

you know who I mean. It's inevitable--the comparison must be thrust on

you every day of your life. But does that, do you think, make it any

the easier for me?"

As the gist of what he was trying to say was borne in upon her, Louise

winced. Her face lost its tired expression, and grew hard. "You are

breaking your word," she said, in a tone she had never before used to

him. "You promised me once, the past should never be mentioned between

us."

"I'm not blind, Louise," he went on, as though she had not spoken. "Nor

am I in a mood to-night to make myself any illusions. The remembrance

of what he was--he was never doubtful of himself, was he?--must

always--HAS always stood between us, while I have racked my brains to

discover what it was. To-night it came over me like a flash that it was

he--that he ... he spoiled you utterly for anyone else; made it

impossible for you to care for anyone who wasn't made of the same stuff

as he was. It would never have occurred to him, would it, to torment

you and make you suffer for his own failure? For the very good reason

that he never was a failure. Oh, I haven't the least doubt what a sorry

figure I must cut beside him!"

The unhappy words came out slowly, and seemed to linger in the air.

Louise did not break the pause that followed, and by her silence,

assented to what he said. She still stood motionless beside the piano.

"Or tell me," Maurice cried abruptly, with a ray of hope; "tell me the

truth about it all, for once. Was it mere exaggeration, or was he

really worth so much more than all the rest of us? Of course he could

play--I know that--but so can many a fool. But all the other part of

it--his incredible talent, or luck in everything he touched--was it

just report, or was it really something else?--Tell me."

"He was a genius," she answered, very coldly and distinctly; and her

voice warned him once more that he was trespassing on ground to which

he had no right. But he was too excited to take the warning.

"A genius!" he echoed. "He was a genius! Yes, what did I tell you? Your

very words imply a comparison as you say them. For I?--what am I? A

miserable bungler, a wretched dilettant--or have you another word for

it? Oh, never mind--don't be afraid to say it!--I'm not sensitive

tonight. I can bear to hear your real opinion of me; for it could not

possibly be lower than my own. Let us get at the truth for once, by all

means!--But what I want to know," he cried a moment later, "is, why one

should be given so much and the other so little. To one all the talents

and all your love; and the other unhappy wretch remains an outsider his

whole life long. When you speak in that tone about him, I could wish

with all my heart that he had been no better than I am. It would give

me pleasure to know that he, too, had only been a dabbling amateur--the

victim of a pitiable wish to be what he hadn't the talent for."

He could not face her amazement; he stared at the yellow globe of the

lamp till his eyes smarted.

"It no doubt seems despicable to you," he went on, "but I can't help

it. I hate him for the way he was able to absorb you. He's my worst

enemy, for he has made it impossible for you--the woman I love--to love

me wholly in return.--Of course, you can't--you WON'T understand.

You're only aghast at what you think my littleness. Of all I've gone

through, you know nothing, and don't want to know. But with him, it was

different; you had no difficulty in understanding him. He had the power

over you. Look!--at this very moment, you are siding, not with me, but

with him. All my struggling and striving counts for nothing.--Oh, if I

could only understand you!" He moved to and fro in his agitation. "Why

is a woman so impossible? Does nothing matter to her but tangible

success? Do care and consideration carry no weight? Even matched

against the blackguardly egoism of what you call genius?--Or will you

tell me that he considered you? Didn't he treat you from beginning to

end like the scoundrel he was?"

She raised hostile eyes. "You have no right to say that," she said in a

small, icy voice, which seemed to put him at an infinite distance from

her. "You are not able to judge him. You didn't know him as ... as I

did."

With the last words a deeper note came into her voice, and this was all

Maurice heard. A frenzied fear seized him.

"Louise!" he cried violently. "You care for him still!"

She started, and raised her arms, as if to ward off a blow. "I don't

... I don't ... God knows I don't! I hate him--you know I do!" She had

clapped both hands to her face, and held them there. When she looked up

again, she was able to speak as quietly as before. "But do you want to

make me hate you, too? Do you think it gives me a higher opinion of

you, to hear you talk like that about some one I once cared for? How

can I find it anything but ungenerous?--Yes, you are right, he WAS

different--in every way. He didn't know what it meant to be envious of

anyone. He was as different from you as day from night."

Maurice was hurt to the quick. "Now I know your real opinion of me!

Till now you have been considerate enough to hide it. But to-night I

have heard it from your own lips. You despise me!"

"Well, you drove me to say it," she burst out, wounded in her turn. "I

should never have said it of my own accord--never! Oh, how ungenerous

you are! It's not the first time you've goaded me into saying

something, and then turned round on me for it. You seem to enjoy

finding out things you can feel hurt by.--But have I ever complained?

Did I not take you just as you were, and love you--yes, love you! I

knew you couldn't be different--that it wasn't your fault if you were

faint-hearted and ... and--But you?--what do you do? You talk as if you

worship the ground I walk on: but you can't let me alone. You are

always trying to change me--to make me what you think I ought to be."

Her words came in haste, stumbling one over the other, as it became

plain to her how deeply this grievance, expressed now for the first

time, had eaten into her soul. "You've never said to yourself, she's

what she is because it's her nature to be. You want to remake my nature

and correct it. You are always believing something is wrong. You knew

very well, long ago, that the best part of me had belonged to some one

else. You swore it didn't matter. But to-night, because there's

absolutely nothing else you can cavil at, you drag it up again--in

spite of your promises. I have always been frank with you. Do you thank

me for it? No, it's been my old fault of giving everything, when it

would have been wiser to keep something back, or at least to pretend

to. I might have taken a lesson from you, in parsimonious reserve. For

there's a part of you, you couldn't give away--not if you lived with a

person for a hundred years."

Of all she said, the last words stung him most.

"Yes, and why?" he cried. "Ask yourself why I You are unjust, as only a

woman can be. You say there's a part of me you don't know. If that's

true, what does it mean? It means you don't want to know it. You don't

want it even to exist. You want everything to belong to you. You don't

care for me well enough to be interested in that side of my life which

has nothing to do with you. Your love isn't strong enough for that."

"Love!--need we talk about love?" Her face was so unhappy that it

seemed to have grown years older. "Love is something quite different.

It takes everything just as it is. You have never really loved me.".

"I have never really loved you?"

He repeated the words after her, as if he did not understand them, and

with his right hand grasped the table; the ground seemed to be slipping

from under his feet. But Louise did not offer to retract what she had

said, and Maurice had a moment of bewilderment: there, not three yards

from him, sat the woman who was the centre of his life; Louise sat

there, and with all appearance of believing it, could cast doubts on

his love for her. At the thought of it, he was exasperated.

"I not love you!"

His voice was rough, had escaped control. "You have only to lift your

finger, and I'll throw myself from that window on to the pavement."

Louise sat as if turned to stone.

"Don't you hear?" he cried more loudly. "Look up! ... tell me to do it!"

Still she did not move.

"Louise, Louise!" he implored, throwing himself down before her. "Speak

to me! Don't you hear me?--Louise!"

"Oh, yes, I hear," she said at last. "I hear how ready you are with

promises you know you will not be asked to keep. But the small,

everyday things--those are what you won't do for me."

"Tell me ... tell me what I shall do!"

"All I ask of you is to be happy. And to let me be happy, too."

He stammered promises and entreaties. Never, never again!--if only this

once she would forgive him; if only she would smile at him, and let the

light come back to her eyes. He had not been responsible for his

actions this evening.

"It was more of a strain than I knew. And after it was over, I had to

vent my disappointment somehow; and it was you, poor darling, who

suffered. Forgive me, Louise!--But try, dear, a little to understand

why it was. Can't you see that I was only like that through fear--yes,

fear!--that somehow you might slip from me. I can't help feeling, one

day you will have had enough of me, and will see me for what I really

am."

He tried to put his arms round her, but she held back: she had no

desire to be reconciled. The sole response she made to his beseeching

words was: "I want to be happy."

"But you shall.--Do you think I live for anything else? Only forgive

me! Remember the happiest hours we have spent together. Come back to

me; be mine again! Tell me I am forgiven."

He was in despair; he could not get at her, under her coating of

insensibility. And since his words had no power to move her, he took to

kissing her hands. She left them limply in his; she did not resist him.

From this, he drew courage: he began to treat her more inconsiderately,

compelling her to bend down to him, making her feel his strength; and

he did not cease his efforts till her head had sunk forward, heavy and

submissive, on his shoulder.

They were at peace again: and the joys of reconciliation seemed almost

worth the price they had paid for them.

V.

The following morning, having drunk his coffee, Maurice pushed back the

metal tray on which the delf-ware stood, and remained sitting idle with

his hands before him. It was nine o'clock, and the houses across the

road were beginning to catch stray sunbeams. By this time, his daily

work was as a rule in full swing; but to-day he was in no hurry to

commence. He was even more certain now than he had been on the night

before, of his lack of success; and the idea of starting anew on the

dull round filled him with distaste. He had been so confident that his

playing would, in some way or other, mark a turning-point in his

musical career; and lo! it had gone off with as little fizz and effect

as a damp rocket. Lighting a cigarette, he indulged in ironical

reflections. But, none the less, he heard the minutes ticking past, and

as he was not only a creature of habit, but had also a troublesome

northern conscience, he rose before the cigarette had formed its second

spike of ash, and went to the piano: no matter how rebellious he felt,

this was the only occupation open to him; and so he set staunchly out

on the unlovely mechanical exercising, which no pianist can escape.

Meanwhile, he recapitulated the scene in the concert hall, from the few

anticipatory moments, when the 'cellist related amatory adventures, to

the abrupt leave he had taken of Dove at the door of the building. And

in the course of doing this, he was invaded by a mild and agreeable

doubt. On such shadowy impressions as these had he built up his

assumption of failure! Was it possible to be so positive? The unreal

state of mind in which he had played, hindered him from acting as his

own judge. The fact that Schwarz had not been effusive, and that none

of his friends had sought him out, admitted of more than one

interpretation. The only real proof he had was Dove's manner to him;

and was not Dove always too full of his own affairs, or, at least, the

affairs of those who were not present at the moment, to have any

attention to spare for the person he was actually with? At the idea

that he was perhaps mistaken, Maurice grew so unsettled that he rose

from the piano. But, by the time he took his seat again, he had

wavered; say what he would, he could not get rid of the belief that if

he had achieved anything out of the common, Madeleine would not have

made it her business to avoid him. After this, however, his fluctuating

hopes rallied, then sank once more, until it ended in his leaving the

piano. For it was of no use trying to concentrate his thoughts until he

knew.

Even as he said this to himself, his resolution was taken. There was

only one person to whom he could apply, and that was Schwarz. The

proceeding might be unusual, but then the circumstances in which he was

placed were unusual, too. Besides, he asked neither praise nor

flattery, merely a candid opinion.

If, however, he faced Schwarz on this point, there were others on which

he might as well get certainty at the same time. The matter of the

PRUFUNG, for instance, had still to be decided. So much depended on the

choice of piece. His fingers itched towards Chopin or Mendelssohn, for

the sole reason that the technique of these composers was in his blood.

Whereas Beethoven!--he knew from experience how difficult it was to get

a satisfactory effect out of the stern barenesses of Beethoven. They

demanded a skill he could never hope to possess.

Between five and six that afternoon, he made his way to the SEBASTIAN

BACH-STRASSE, where Schwarz lived. It was hot in the new, shadeless

streets through which he passed, and also in crossing the JOHANNAPARK;

hardly a hint of September was in the air. He walked at a slow pace, in

order not to arrive too early, and, for some reason unclear to himself,

avoided stepping on the joins of the paving-stones.