MAY'S STORY.
[Illustration: Music, SCHUMANN]
Following Arkwright, I joined Adelaide and von Francius at the foot of
the orchestra. She had sent word that she was tired. Looking at her, I
thought indeed she must be very tired, so white, so sad she looked.
"Adelaide," I expostulated, "why did you remain so long?"
"Oh, I did not know it was so late. Come!"
We made our way out of the hall through the veranda to the entrance.
Lady Le Merchant's carriage, it seemed, was ready and waiting. It was
a pouring night. The thaw had begun. The steady downpour promised a
cheerful ending to the carnival doings of the Monday and Tuesday; all
but a few homeless or persevering wretches had been driven away. We
drove away too. I noticed that the "good-night" between Adelaide and
von Francius was of the most laconical character. They barely spoke, did
not shake hands, and he turned and went to seek his cab before we had
all got into the carriage.
Adelaide uttered not a word during our drive home, and I, leaning back,
shut my eyes and lived the evening over again. Eugen's friend had
laughed the insidious whisper to scorn. I could not deal so summarily
with it; nor could I drive the words of it out of my head. They set
themselves to the tune of the waltz, and rang in my ears:
"He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgrace
that he is hiding. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five years
ago."
The carriage stopped. A sleepy servant let us in. Adelaide, as we went
upstairs, drew me into her dressing-room.
"A moment, May. Have you enjoyed yourself?"
"H'm--well--yes and no. And you, Adelaide?"
"I never enjoy myself now," she replied, very gently. "I am getting used
to that, I think."
She clasped her jeweled hands and stood by the lamp, whose calm light
lighted her calm face, showing it wasted and unutterably sad.
Something--a terror, a shrinking as from a strong menacing hand--shook
me.
"Are you ill, Adelaide?" I cried.
"No. Good-night, dear May. _Schlaf' wohl_, as they say here."
To my unbounded astonishment, she leaned forward and gave me a gentle
kiss; then, still holding my hand, asked: "Do you still say your
prayers, May?"
"Sometimes."
"What do you say?"
"Oh! the same that I always used to say; they are better than any I can
invent."
"Yes. I never do say mine now. I rather think I am afraid to begin
again."
"Good-night, Adelaide," I said, inaudibly; and she loosed my hand.
At the door I turned. She was still standing by the lamp; still her face
wore the same strange, subdued look. With a heart oppressed by new
uneasiness, I left her.
It must have been not till toward dawn that I fell into a sleep, heavy,
but not quiet--filled with fantastic dreams, most of which vanished as
soon as they had passed my mind. But one remained. To this day it is as
vivid before me, as if I had actually lived through it.
Meseemed again to be at the Grafenbergerdahl, again to be skating, again
rescued--and by Eugen Courvoisier. But suddenly the scene changed; from
a smooth sheet of ice, across which the wind blew nippingly, and above
which the stars twinkled frostily, there was a huge waste of water which
raged, while a tempest howled around--the clear moon was veiled, all was
darkness and chaos. He saved me, not by skating with me to the shore,
but by clinging with me to some floating wood until we drove upon a bank
and landed. But scarcely had we set foot upon the ground, than all was
changed again. I was alone, seated upon a bench in the Hofgarten, on a
spring afternoon. It was May; the chestnuts and acacias were in full
bloom, and the latter made the air heavy with their fragrance. The
nightingales sung richly, and I sat looking, from beneath the shade of
a great tree, upon the fleeting Rhine, which glided by almost past my
feet. It seemed to me that I had been sad--so sad as never before. A
deep weight appeared to have been just removed from my heart, and yet so
heavy had it been that I could not at once recover from its pressure;
and even then, in the sunshine, and feeling that I had no single cause
for care or grief, I was unhappy, with a reflex mournfulness.
And as I sat thus, it seemed that some one came and sat beside me
without speaking, and I did not turn to look at him; but ever as I sat
there and felt that he was beside me, the sadness lifted from my heart,
until it grew so full of joy that tears rose to my eyes. Then he who was
beside me placed his hand upon mine, and I looked at him. It was Eugen
Courvoisier. His face and his eyes were full of sadness; but I knew
that he loved me, though he said but one word, "Forgive!" to which I
answered, "Can you forgive?" But I knew that I alluded to something much
deeper than that silly little episode of having cut him at the theater.
He bowed his head; and then I thought I began to weep, covering my face
with my hands; but they were tears of exquisite joy, and the peace at my
heart was the most entire I had ever felt. And he loosened my hands, and
drew me to him and kissed me, saying "My love!" And as I felt--yes,
actually felt--the pressure of his lips upon mine, and felt the spring
shining upon me, and heard the very echo of the twitter of the birds,
saw the light fall upon the water, and smelled the scent of the acacias,
and saw the Lotus-blume as she--
"Duftet und weinet und zittert
Vor Liebe und Liebesweh,"
I awoke, and confronted a gray February morning, felt a raw chilliness
in the air, heard a cold, pitiless rain driven against the window; knew
that my head ached, my heart harmonized therewith; that I was awake, not
in a dream; that there had been no spring morning, no acacias, no
nightingales; above all, no love--remembered last night, and roused to
the consciousness of another day, the necessity of waking up and living
on.
Nor could I rest or sleep. I rose and contemplated through the window
the driving rain and the soaking street, the sorrowful naked trees, the
plain of the parade ground, which looked a mere waste of mud and
half-melted ice; the long plain line of the Caserne itself--a cheering
prospect truly!
When I went down-stairs I found Sir Peter, in heavy traveling overcoat,
standing in the hall; a carriage stood at the door; his servant was
putting in his master's luggage and rugs. I paused in astonishment. Sir
Peter looked at me and smiled with the dubious benevolence which he was
in the habit of extending to me.
"I am very sorry to be obliged to quit your charming society, Miss
Wedderburn, but business calls me imperatively to England; and, at
least, I am sure that my wife can not be unhappy with such a companion
as her sister."
"You are going to England?"
"I am going to England. I have been called so hastily that I can make no
arrangements for Adelaide to accompany me, and indeed it would not be at
all pleasant for her, as I am only going on business; but I hope to
return for her and bring her home in a few weeks. I am leaving Arkwright
with you. He will see that you have all you want."
Sir Peter was smiling, ever smiling, with the smile which was my horror.
"A brilliant ball, last night, was it not?" he added, extending his
hand to me, in farewell, and looking at me intently with eyes that
fascinated and repelled me at once.
"Very, but--but--you were not there?"
"Was I not? I have a strong impression that I was. Ask my lady if she
thinks I was there. And now good-bye, and _au revoir_!"
He loosened my hand, descended the steps, entered the carriage, and was
driven away. His departure ought to have raised a great weight from my
mind, but it did not; it impressed me with a sense of coming disaster.
Adelaide breakfasted in her room. When I had finished I went to her. Her
behavior puzzled me. She seemed elated, excited, at the absence of Sir
Peter, and yet, suddenly turning to me, she exclaimed, eagerly:
"Oh, May! I wish I had been going to England, too! I wish I could leave
this place, and never see it again."
"Was Sir Peter at the ball, Adelaide?" I asked.
She turned suddenly pale; her lip trembled; her eye wavered, as she said
in a low, uneasy voice:
"I believe he was--yes; in domino."
"What a sneaking thing to do!" I remarked, candidly. "He had told us
particularly that he was not coming."
"That very statement should have put us on our guard," she remarked.
"On our guard? Against what?" I asked, unsuspectingly.
"Oh, nothing--nothing! I wonder when he will return! I would give a
world to be in England!" she said, with a heartsick sigh; and I, feeling
very much bewildered, left her.
In the afternoon, despite wind and weather, I sallied forth, and took my
way to my old lodgings in the Wehrhahn. Crossing a square leading to the
street I was going to, I met Anna Sartorius. She bowed, looking at me
mockingly. I returned her salutation, and remembered last night again
with painful distinctness. The air seemed full of mysteries and
uncertainties; they clung about my mind like cobwebs, and I could not
get rid of their soft, stifling influence.
Having arrived at my lodgings, I mounted the stairs. Frau Lutzler met
me.
"_Na_, _na_, Fräulein! You do not patronize me much now. My rooms are
becoming too small for you, I reckon."
"Indeed, Frau Lutzler, I wish I had never been in any larger ones," I
answered her, earnestly.
"So! Well, 'tis true you look thin and worn--not as well as you used to.
And were you--but I heard you were, so where's the use of telling lies
about it--at the Maskenball last night? And how did you like it?"
"Oh, it was all very new to me. I never was at one before."
"_Nicht?_ Then you must have been astonished. They say there was a
Mephisto so good he would have deceived the devil himself. And you,
Fräulein--I heard that you looked very beautiful."
"So! It must have been a mistake."
"_Doch nicht!_ I have always maintained that at certain times you were
far from bad-looking, and dressed and got up for the stage, would be
absolutely handsome. Nearly any one can be that--if you are not too
near the foot-lights, that is, and don't go behind the scenes."
With which neat slaying of a particular compliment by a general one, she
released me, and let me go on my way upstairs.
Here I had some books and some music. But the room was cold; the books
failed to interest me, and the music did not go--the piano was like
me--out of tune. And yet I felt the need of some musical expression
of the mood that was upon me. I bethought myself of the Tonhalle,
next door, almost, and that in the rittersaal it would be quiet and
undisturbed, as the ball that night was not to be held there, but in
one of the large rooms of the Caserne.
Without pausing to think a second time of the plan, I left the house and
went to the Tonhalle, only a few steps away. In consequence of the rain
and bad weather almost every trace of the carnival had disappeared. I
found the Tonhalle deserted save by a bar-maid at the restauration. I
asked her if the rittersaal were open, and she said yes. I passed on. As
I drew near the door I heard music; the piano was already being played.
Could it be von Francius who was there? I did not think so. The touch
was not his--neither so practiced, so brilliant, nor so sure.
Satisfied, after listening a moment, that it was not he, I resolved to
go in and pass through the room. If it were any one whom I could send
away I would do so, if not, I could go away again myself.
I entered. The room was somewhat dark, but I went in and had almost
come to the piano before I recognized the player--Courvoisier. Overcome
with vexation and confusion at the _contretemps_, I paused a moment,
undecided whether to turn back and go out again. In any case I resolved
not to remain in the room. He was seated with his back to me, and still
continued to play. Some music was on the desk of the piano before him.
I might turn back without being observed. I would do so. Hardly,
though--a mirror hung directly before the piano, and I now saw that
while he continued to play, he was quietly looking at me, and that his
keen eyes--that hawk's glance which I knew so well--must have recognized
me. That decided me. I would not turn back. It would be a silly,
senseless proceeding, and would look much more invidious than my
remaining. I walked up to the piano, and he turned, still playing.
"_Guten Tag, mein Fräulein._"
I merely bowed, and began to search through a pile of songs and music
upon the piano. I would at any rate take some away with me to give some
color to my proceedings. Meanwhile he played on.
I selected a song, not in the least knowing what it was, and rolling it
up, was turning away.
"Are you busy, Miss Wedderburn?"
"N--no."
"Would it be asking too much of you to play the pianoforte
accompaniment?"
"I will try," said I, speaking briefly, and slowly drawing off my
gloves.
"If it is disagreeable to you, don't do it," said he, pausing.
"Not in the very least," said I, avoiding looking at him.
He opened the music. It was one of Jensen's "Wanderbilder" for piano and
violin--the "Kreuz am Wege."
"I have only tried it once before," I remarked, "and I am a dreadful
bungler."
"_Bitte sehr!_" said he, smiling, arranging his own music on one of the
stands and adding, "Now I am ready."
I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow the
music. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness,
from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me.
"Das Kreuz am Wege" turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over.
"Suppose we try it again," he suggested, and we did so. I found my
fingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to the
piercing beauty of his notes.
"That is dismal," said he.
"It is a dismal subject, is it not?"
"Suggestive, at least. 'The Cross by the Wayside.' Well, I have a mind
for something more cheerful. Did you leave the ball early last night?"
"No; not very early."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"It was all new to me--very interesting--but I don't think I quite
enjoyed it."
"Ah, you should see the balls at Florence, or Venice, or Vienna!"
He smiled as he leaned back, as if thinking over past scenes.
"Yes," said I, dubiously, "I don't think I care much for such things,
though it is interesting to watch the little drama going on around."
"And to act in it," I also thought, remembering Anna Sartorius and her
whisper, and I looked at him. "Not honest, not honorable. Hiding from
shame and disgrace."
I looked at him and did not believe it. For the moment the torturing
idea left me. I was free from it and at peace.
"Were you going to practice?" he asked. "I fear I disturb you."
"Oh, no! It does not matter in the least. I shall not practice now."
"I want to try some other things," said he, "and Friedhelm's and my
piano was not loud enough for me, nor was there sufficient space between
our walls for the sounds of a symphony. Do you not know the mood?"
"Yes."
"But I am afraid to ask you to accompany me."
"Why?"
"You seem unwilling."
"I am not: but I should have supposed that my unwillingness--if I had
been unwilling--would have been an inducement to you to ask me."
"_Herrgott!_ Why?"
"Since you took a vow to be disagreeable to me, and to make me hate
you."
A slight flush passed rapidly over his face, as he paused for a moment
and bit his lips.
"_Mein Fräulein_--that night I was in bitterness of spirit--I hardly
knew what I was saying--"
"I will accompany you," I interrupted him, my heart beating. "Only how
can I begin unless you play, or tell me what you want to play?"
"True," said he, laughing, and yet not moving from his place beside
the piano, upon which he had leaned his elbow, and across which he now
looked at me with the self-same kindly, genial glance as that he had
cast upon me across the little table at the Köln restaurant. And yet not
the self-same glance, but another, which I would not have exchanged for
that first one.
If he would but begin to play I felt that I should not mind so much; but
when he sat there and looked at me and half smiled, without beginning
anything practical, I felt the situation at least trying.
He raised his eyes as the door opened at the other end of the saal.
"Ah, there is Friedhelm," said he, "now he will take seconds."
"Then I will not disturb you any longer."
"On the contrary," said he, laying his hand upon my wrist. (My dream of
the morning flashed into my mind.) "It would be better if you remained,
then we could have a trio. Friedel, come here! You are just in time.
Fräulein Wedderburn will be good enough to accompany us, and we can try
the Fourth Symphony."
"What you call 'Spring'?" inquired Helfen, coming up smilingly. "With
all my heart. Where is the score?"
"What you call Spring?" Was it possible that in winter--on a cold and
unfriendly day--we were going to have spring, leafy bloom, the desert
filled with leaping springs, and blossoming like a rose? Full of wonder,
surprise, and a certain excitement at the idea, I sat still and thought
of my dream, and the rain beat against the windows, and a draughty wind
fluttered the tinselly decorations of last night. The floor was strewed
with fragments of garments torn in the crush--paper and silken flowers,
here a rosette, there a buckle, a satin bow, a tinsel spangle. Benches
and tables were piled about the room, which was half dark; only to
westward, through one window, was visible a paler gleam, which might by
comparison be called light.
The two young men turned over the music, laughing at something, and
chaffing each other. I never in my life saw two such entire friends as
these; they seemed to harmonize most perfectly in the midst of their
unlikeness to each other.
"Excuse that we kept you waiting, _mein Fräulein_," said Courvoisier,
placing some music before me. "This fellow is so slow, and will put
everything into order as he uses it."
"Well for you that I am, _mein lieber_," said Helfen, composedly. "If
any one had the enterprise to offer a prize to the most extravagant,
untidy fellow in Europe, the palm would be yours--by a long way too."
"Friedel binds his music and numbers it," observed Courvoisier. "It is
one of the most beautiful and affecting of sights to behold him with
scissors, paste-pot, brush and binding. It occurs periodically about
four times a year, I think, and moves me almost to tears when I see it."
"_Der edle Ritter_ leaves his music unbound, and borrows mine on every
possible occasion when his own property is scattered to the four winds
of heaven."
"_Aber! aber!_" cried Eugen. "That is too much! I call Frau Schmidt to
witness that all my music is put in one place."
"I never said it wasn't. But you never can find it when you want it, and
the confusion is delightfully increased by your constantly rushing off
to buy a new _partitur_ when you can't find the old one; so you have
three or four of each."
"This is all to show off what he considers his own good qualities; a
certain slow, methodical plodding and a good memory, which are natural
gifts, but which he boasts of as if they were acquired virtues. He binds
his music because he is a pedant and a prig, and can't help it; a bad
fellow to get on with. Now, _mein bester_, for the 'Fruhling.'"
"But the Fräulein ought to have it explained," expostulated Helfen,
laughing. "Every one has not the misfortune to be so well acquainted
with you as I am. He has rather insane fancies sometimes," he added,
turning to me, "without rhyme or reason that I am aware, and he chooses
to assert that Beethoven's Fourth Symphony, or the chief motive of it,
occurred to him on a spring day, when the master was, for a time, quite
charmed from his bitter humor, and had, perhaps, some one by his side
who put his heart in tune with the spring songs of the birds, the green
of the grass, the scent of the flowers. So he calls it the 'Fruhling
Symphonie,' and will persist in playing it as such. I call the idea
rather far-fetched, but then that is nothing unusual with him."
"Having said your remarkably stupid say, which Miss Wedderburn has far
too much sense to heed in the least, suppose you allow us to begin,"
said Courvoisier, giving the other a push toward his violin.
But we were destined to have yet another coadjutor in the shape of Karl
Linders, who at that moment strolled in, and was hailed by his friends
with jubilation.
"Come and help! Your 'cello will give just the mellowness that is
wanted," said Eugen.
"I must go and get it then," said Karl, looking at me.
Eugen, with an indescribable expression as he intercepted the glance,
introduced us to one another. Karl and Friedhelm Helfen went off to
another part of the Tonhalle to fetch Karl's violoncello, and we were
left alone again.
"Perhaps I ought not to have introduced him. I forgot 'Lohengrin,'" said
Eugen.
"You know that you did not," said I, in a low voice.
"No," he answered, almost in the same tone. "It was thinking of that
which led me to introduce poor old Karl to you. I thought, perhaps, that
you would accept it as a sign--will you?"
"A sign of what?"
"That I feel myself to have been in the wrong throughout--and forgive."
As I sat, amazed and a little awed at this almost literal fulfillment of
my dream, the others returned.
Karl contributed the tones of his mellowest of instruments, which he
played with a certain pleasant breadth and brightness of coloring, and
my dream came ever truer and truer. The symphony was as spring-like
as possible. We tried it nearly all through; the hymn-like and yet
fairy-like first movement; the second, that song of universal love,
joy, and thanksgiving, with Beethoven's masculine hand evident
throughout. To the notes there seemed to fall a sunshine into the room,
and we could see the fields casting their covering of snow, and withered
trees bursting into bloom; brooks swollen with warm rain, birds busy at
nest-making; clumps of primroses on velvet leaves, and the subtle scent
of violets; youths and maidens with love in their eyes; and even a hint
of later warmth, when hedges should be white with hawthorn, and the
woodland slopes look, with their sheets of hyacinths, as if some of
heaven's blue had been spilled upon earth's grass.
As the last strong, melodious modulations ceased, Courvoisier pointed to
one of the windows.
"Friedhelm, you wretched unbeliever, behold the refutation of your
theories. The symphony has brought the sun out."
"For the first time," said Friedhelm, as he turned his earnest young
face with its fringe of loose brown hair toward the sneaking sun-ray,
which was certainly looking shyly in. "As a rule the very heavens weep
at the performance. Don't you remember the last time we tried it, it
began to rain instantly?"
"Miss Wedderburn's co-operation must have secured its success then on
this occasion," said Eugen, gravely, glancing at me for a moment.
"Hear! hear!" murmured Karl, screwing up his violoncello and smiling
furtively.
"Oh, I am afraid I hindered rather than helped," said I, "but it is very
beautiful."
"But not like spring, is it?" asked Friedhelm.
"Well, I think it is."
"There! I knew she would declare for me," said Courvoisier, calmly, at
which Karl Linders looked up in some astonishment.
"Shall we try this 'Traumerei,' Miss Wedderburn, if you are not too
tired?"
I turned willingly to the piano, and we played Schumann's little
"Dreams."
"Ah," said Eugen, with a deep sigh (and his face had grown sad), "isn't
that the essence of sweetness and poetry? Here's another which is
lovely. 'Noch ein Paar,' _nicht wahr?_"
"And it will be 'noch ein Paar' until our fingers drop off," scolded
Friedhelm, who seemed, however, very willing to await that consummation.
We went through many of the Kinderscenen and some of the Kreissleriana,
and just as we finished a sweet little "Bittendes Kind," the twilight
grew almost into darkness, and Courvoisier laid his violin down.
"Miss Wedderburn, thank you a thousand times!"
"Oh, _bitte sehr_!" was all I could say. I wanted to say so much more;
to say that I had been made happy; my sadness dispelled, a dream half
fulfilled, but the words stuck, and had they come ever so flowingly I
could not have uttered them with Friedhelm Helfen, who knew so much,
looking at us, and Karl Linders on his best behavior in what he
considered superior company.
I do not know how it was that Karl and Friedhelm, as we all came from
the Tonhalle, walked off to the house, and Eugen and I were left to walk
alone through the soaking streets, emptied of all their revelers, and
along the dripping Königsallée, with its leafless chestnuts, to Sir
Peter's house. It was cold, it was wet--cheerless, dark, and dismal, and
I was very happy--very insanely so. I gave a glance once or twice at my
companion. The brightness had left his face; it was stern and worn
again, and his lips set as if with the repression of some pain.
"Herr Courvoisier, have you heard from your little boy?"
"No."
"No?"
"I do not expect to hear from him, _mein Fräulein_. When he left me we
parted altogether."
"Oh, how dreadful!"
No answer. And we spoke no more until he said "Good-evening" to me at
the door of No. 3. As I went in I reflected that I might never meet him
thus face to face again. Was it an opportunity missed, or was it a brief
glimpse of unexpected joy?