artist with the drumsticks certainly is distinguished-looking. If he
only would not wear that odious scarlet uniform. I wonder why he does
not sit down, like the rest of his colleagues."
Aŕpad Vihary leaned against the panelled wall, his brow puckered in
boredom, his long black mustaches drooping from sheer discouragement.
His was a figure for sculpture--a frame powerfully modelled, a bisque
complexion. Thin as a cedar sapling, he preserved such an immovable
attitude that in the haze of the creamy atmosphere he seemed a carved,
marmoreal image rather than a young man with devouring eyes.
The three visitors ate sandwiches and pretended to relish Munich beer
served in tall stone mugs. Aunt Lucas, who was shaped like a 'cello,
made more than a pretence of sipping; she drank one entirely,
regretting the exigencies of chaperonage: to ask for more might shock
the proper young man.
"It's horrid here, after all," she remarked discontentedly. "So many
people--_such_ people--and very few nice ones. The Batsons are over
there, Lora; but then you don't care for them. O dear, I wish the band
would strike up again."
It did. A vicious swirl of colour and dizzy, dislocated rhythms prefaced
the incantations of the Czardas. Instantly the eating, gabbling crowd
became silent. Alfassy Janos magnetized his hearers with cradling,
caressing movements of his fiddle. He waved like tall grass in the wind;
he twisted snakewise his lithe body as he lashed his bow upon the
screaming strings; the resilient tones darted fulgurantly from
instrument to instrument. After chasing in circles of quicksilver, they
all met with a crash; and the whole tonal battery, reënforced by the
throbbing of Aŕpad Vihary's dulcimer, swept through the suite of rooms
from ceiling to sanded floor. It was no longer enchanting music, but
sheer madness of the blood; sensual and warlike, it gripped the
imagination as these tunes of old Egypt, filtered through savage
centuries, reached the ears. Lora trembled in the gale that blew across
the Puzta. She imagined a determined Hungarian prairie, over which
dashed disordered centaurs brandishing clubs, driving before them a band
of satyrs and leaping fauns. The hoofed men struggled. At their front
was a monster with a black goat-face and huge horns; he fought fiercely
the half-human horses. The sun, a thin scarf of light, was eclipsed by
earnest clouds; the curving thunder closed over the battle; the air was
flame-sprinkled and enlaced by music; and most melancholy were the eyes
of the defeated Pan--the melancholy eyes of Aŕpad Vihary....
Aunt Lucas was scandalized. "Do you know, Lora, that the impudent
dulcimer virtuoso"--she prided herself on her musical terms--"actually
stared you out of countenance during the entire Czardas?" And she could
have added that her niece had returned the glance unflinchingly.
Mr. Steyle noticed Lora's vacant regard when he addressed her and
insisted on getting her away from the dangerous undertow of this "table
d'hôte music," as he contemptuously called it. He summoned the waiter.
Lora shed her disappointment. "Oh, let's wait for the _cymbalom_ solo,"
she frankly begged.
Her aunt was unmoved. "Yes, Mr. Steyle, we had better go; the air is
positively depressing. These slumming parties are delightful if you
don't overdo them--but the people!" Up went her lorgnon.
They soon departed. Lora did not dare to look back until she reached the
door that opened on the avenue; as she did so her vibrant gaze collided
with the Hungarian's. She determined to see him again.
II
Nice Brooklyn girls always attend church and symphony concerts. This
dual custom is considered respectable and cultured. Lora's parents
during their lifetime never missed the Theodore Thomas concerts and the
sermons of a certain famous local preacher; but there were times when
the young woman longed for Carmen and the delights of fashionable
Bohemia. Carefully reared by her Aunt Lucas, she had nevertheless a
taste for gypsy bands and "Gyp's" novels. She read the latter
translated, much to the disedification of her guardian, who was a
linguist and a patron of the fine arts. This latter clause included
subscriptions to the Institute Course and several scientific journals.
If Lora were less romantic, all would be well. Once the careful chaperon
had feared music and its disturbing influences; but after she had read
an article about its healing effect upon the insane she felt that it
could work no evil in Lora; indeed, it was an elevating art. She was
fond of music herself, and, as dancing was strictly tabooed, there
seemed little likelihood of the noble art of "sweet concordance"--Aunt
Lucas had picked this quotation up somewhere--doing mischief to her
impressionable niece.
Nearly all dwelling-houses look alike in Brooklyn, even at midday. The
street in which the Crownes lived was composed of conventional
brown-stone buildings and English basements. Nielje, the Dutch maid,
stood at the half-opened door, regarding with suspicion the big, dark
man who had pulled the bell so violently. Aunt Lucas was in New York at
the meeting of a society devoted to Ethical Enjoyment. Though Nielje had
been warned secretly of an expected visitor, this wild-looking young man
with long black hair, wearing a flaring coat of many colours and baggy
Turkish trousers, gave her a shock. Why did he come to the basement as
if he were one of the cook's callers? She paused. Then the door was
shoved in by a muscular arm, and she was pushed against the wall.
"Don't try that again, man," she protested.
He answered her in gibberish. "Mees, Mees Lora," he repeated.
"Ach!" she exclaimed.
Aŕpad Vihary gloomily followed her into the dining-room, where Lora
stood trembling. This was the third time she had met the Hungarian, and
fearing Prospect Park,--after two timid walks there, under the
fiery-fingered leaves of early autumn,--she had been prevailed upon to
invite Aŕpad to her home. She regretted her imprudence the moment he
entered. All his footlight picturesqueness vanished in the cold, hard
light of an unromantic Brooklyn breakfast-room. He seemed like a clumsy
circus hero as he scraped his feet over the parquetry and attempted to
kiss her hand. She drew away instantly and pointed to a chair. He
refused to sit down; his pride seemed hurt.
Then he gave the girl an intense look, and she drew nearer.
"Oh, Aŕpad Vihary," she began.
He interrupted. "You do not love me now. Why? You told me you loved me,
in the park, yesterday. I am a poor artist, that is the reason."
This speech he uttered glibly, and, despite the extraordinary
pronunciation, she understood it. She took his long hand, the fingers
amazed her. He bent them back until they touched his wrist, and was
proud of their flexibility. He walked to the dining-table and tossed its
cover-cloth on a chair. Upon his two thumbs he went around it like an
acrobat. "Shall I hold you out with one arm?" he softly asked. Lora was
vastly amused; this was indeed a courtship out of the ordinary--it
pleased her exotic taste.
"Hungarian gypsies are very strong, are they not?" she innocently asked.
"I am not gypsy nor am I Hungarian; I am an East Indian. My family is
royal. We are of the Rajpoot tribes called Ranas. My father once ruled
Roorbunder."
Lora was amazed. A king's son, a Rana of Roorbunder! She became very
sympathetic. Again she urged him to sit down.
"My nation never sits before a woman," he proudly answered.
"But I will sit beside you," she coaxed, pushing him to a corner. He
resisted her and went to the window. Lora again joined him. The man
piqued her. He was mysterious and very unlike Mr. Steyle--poor,
sentimental Clarence, who melted with sighs if she but glanced at him;
and then, Clarence was too stout. She adored slender men, believing that
when fat came in at the door love fled out of the window.
"They put me in a circus at Buda-Pesth," remarked Aŕpad Vihary, as if he
were making a commonplace statement about the weather.
She gave a little scream; he regarded her with Oriental composure. "In a
circus! You! Did you ride?"
"I cannot ride," he said. "I played in a cage all day."
"Because you were wild?" She then went into a fit of laughter. He was
such a funny fellow, though his ardent gaze made her blush. So blond and
pink was Lora that her friends called her Strawberry--a delicate
compliment in which she delighted. It was this golden head and radiant
face, with implacably blue eyes, that set the blood pumping into Aŕpad's
brain. When he looked at her, he saw sunlight.
"Do you know, you absurd prince, that when you played the Czardas the
other night I seemed to see a vision of a Hungarian prairie, covered
with fighting centaurs and satyrs! I longed to be a _vivandière_ among
all those fauns. You were there--in the music, I mean--and you were big
Pan--oh, so ugly and terrible!"
"Pan! That is a Polish title," he answered quite simply.
"Stupid! The great god Pan--don't you know your mythology? Haven't you
read Mrs. Browning? He was the god of nature, of the woods. Even now, I
believe you have ears with furry tips and hoofs like a faun."
He turned a sickly yellow.
"Anyhow, why did they put you in a cage? Were you a wild boy?"
"They thought so in Hungary."
"But why?"
He stared at her sorrowfully, and was about to empty his soul; but she
turned away with a shudder.
"I know, I know," she whispered; "your hands--they are like the hands
of--"
Aŕpad threw out his chest, and Lora heard with a curiosity that became
nervous a rhythmic wagging sound, like velvet bruised by some dull
implement. It frightened her.
"Do not be afraid of me," he begged. "You cannot say anything I do not
know already." He walked to the door, and the girl followed him.
"Don't go, Aŕpad," she said with pretty remorse.
The fire blazed in his eyes and with a single swift grasp he seized her,
holding her aloft like a torch. Lora almost lost consciousness. She had
not counted upon such barbarous wooing, and, frightened, cried out,
"Nielje, Nielje!"
Nielje burst into the room as if she had been very near the keyhole.
She was a powerful woman from Holland, who did not fear an army.
"Put her down!" she insisted, in her deepest gutturals. "Put her down,
you brute, or I'll hurt you."
Lora jumped to the floor as Nielje struck with her broomstick at Aŕpad's
retreating back. To the surprise of the women he gave a shriek of agony
and ran to the door, Nielje following close behind. Lora, her eyes
strained with excitement, did not stir; she heard a struggle in the
little hall as the man fumbled at the basement entrance. Again he
yelled, and then Lora rushed to the window. Nielje, on her knees, was
being dragged across the grassy space in front of the house. She held
on, seemingly, to the coat-tail of the frantic musician; only by a
vigorous shove did he evade her persistent grasp and disappear.
A policeman with official aptness went leisurely by. Nielje flew into
the house, locking and bolting the door. Her face was red as she rolled
on the floor, her hands at her sides. Lora, alarmed, thought she was
seriously hurt or hysterical from fright; but the laughter was too
hearty and appealing.
"Oh, Meeslora! Oh, Meeslora!" she gasped. "He must be monkey-man--he has
monkey tail!"
Lora could have fainted from chagrin and horror.
Had the great god Pan passed her way?
BOOKS BY JAMES HUNEKER
What Maeterlinck wrote:
Maurice Maeterlinck wrote thus of James Huneker: "Do you know that
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