THE MUSICIAN.
One evening, soon after the baby's arrival, as Mary sat with him in her
lap, the sweet tones they had heard twice before came creeping into her
ears so gently that she seemed to be aware of their presence only after
they had been for some time coming and going: she laid the baby down,
and, stealing from the room, listened on the landing. Certainly the
sounds were born in the house, but whether they came from below or
above she could not tell. Going first down the stair, and then up, she
soon satisfied herself that they came from above, and thereupon
ventured a little farther up the stair.
She had already been to see the dressmaker, whom she had come to know
through the making of Hesper's twilight robe of cloud, had found her
far from well, and had done what she could for her. But she was in no
want, and of more than ordinary independence--a Yorkshire woman, about
forty years of age, delicate, but of great patience and courage; a
plain, fair, freckled woman, with a belief in religion rather than in
God. Very strict, therefore, in her observances, she thought a great
deal more of the Sabbath than of man, a great deal more of the Bible
than of the truth, and ten times more of her creed than of the will of
God; and, had she heard any one utter such words as I have just
written, would have said he was an atheist. She was a worthy creature,
notwithstanding, only very unpleasant if one happened to step on the
toes of a pet ignorance. Mary soon discovered that there was no profit
in talking with her on the subjects she loved most: plainly she knew
little about them, except at second hand--that is, through the forms of
other minds than her own. Such people seem intended for the special
furtherance of the saints in patience; being utterly unassailable by
reason, they are especially trying to those who desire to stand on
brotherly terms with all men, and so are the more sensitive to the
rudeness that always goes with moral stupidity; intellectual stupidity
may coexist with the loveliness of an angel. It is one of the blessed
hopes of the world to come, that there will be none such in it. But why
so many words? I say to myself, Will one of such as I mean recognize
his portrait in my sketch? Many such have I met in my young days, and
in my old days I find they swarm still. I could wish that all such had
to earn their own bread like Ann Byron: had she been rich, she would
have been unbearable. Women like her, when they are well to do, walk
with a manly stride, make the tails of their dresses go like the screw
of a steamer behind them, and are not unfrequently Scotch.
As Mary went up, the music ceased; but, hoping Miss Byrom would be able
to enlighten her concerning its source, she continued her ascent, and
knocked at her door. A voice, rather wooden, yet not without character,
invited her to enter.
Ann sat near the window, for, although it was quite dusk, a little use
might yet be made of the lingering ghost of the daylight. Almost all
Mary could see of her was the reflection from the round eyes of a pair
of horn spectacles.
"How do you do, Miss Byrom?" she said.
"Not at all well," answered Ann, almost in a tone of offense.
"Is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Mary.
"We are to owe no man anything but love, the apostle tells us."
"You must owe a good deal of that, then," said Mary, one part vexed,
and two parts amused, "for you don't seem to pay much of it."
She was just beginning to be sorry for what she had said when she was
startled by a sound, very like a little laugh, which seemed to come
from behind her. She turned quickly, but, before she could see anything
through the darkness, the softest of violin-tones thrilled the air
close beside her, and then she saw, seated on the corner of Ann's bed,
the figure of a man--young or old, she could not tell. How could he
have kept so still! His bow was wandering slowly about over the strings
of his violin; but presently, having overcome, as it seemed, with the
help of his instrument, his inclination to laugh, he ceased, and all
was still.
"I came," said Mary, turning again to Ann, "hoping you might be able to
tell me where the sweet sounds came from which we have heard now two or
three times; but I had no idea there was any one in the room besides
yourself.--They come at intervals a great deal too long," she added,
turning toward the figure in the darkness.
"I am afraid my ear is out sometimes," said the man, mistaking her
remark. "I think it comes of the anvil."
The voice was manly, though gentle, and gave an impression of utter
directness and simplicity. It was Mary's turn, however, not to
understand, and she made no answer.
"I am very sorry," the musician went on, "if I annoyed you, miss."
Mary was hastening to assure him that the fact was quite the other way,
when Ann prevented her.
"I told you so!" she said; "_you_ make an idol of your foolish
plaything, but other people take it only for the nuisance it is."
"Indeed, you never were more mistaken," said Mary. "Both Mrs. Helmer
and myself are charmed with the little that reaches us. It is, indeed,
seldom one hears tones of such purity."
The player responded with a sigh of pleasure.
"Now there you are, miss," cried Ann, "a-flattering of his folly till
not a word I say will be of the smallest use!"
"If your words are not wise," said Mary, with suppressed indignation,
"the less he heeds them the better."
"It ain't wise, to my judgment, miss, to make a man think himself
something when he is nothing. It's quite enough a man should deceive
his own self, without another to come and help him."
"To speak the truth is not to deceive," replied Mary. "I have some
knowledge of music, and I say only what is true."
"What good can it be spending his time scraping horsehair athort
catgut?"
"They must fancy some good in it up in heaven," said Mary, "or they
wouldn't have so much of it there."
"There ain't no fiddles in heaven," said Ann, with indignation;
"they've nothing there but harps and trumpets." Mary turned to the man,
who had not said a word.
"Would you mind coming down with me," she said, "and playing a little,
very softly, to my friend? She has a little baby, and is not strong. It
would do her good."
"She'd better read her Bible," said Ann, who, finding she could no
longer see, was lighting a candle.
"She does read her Bible," returned Mary; "and a little music would,
perhaps, help her to read it to better purpose."
"There, Ann!" cried the player.
The woman replied with a scornful grunt.
"Two fools don't make a wise man, for all the franchise," she said.
But Mary had once more turned toward the musician, and in the light of
the candle was met by a pair of black eyes, keen yet soft, looking out
from tinder an overhanging ridge of forehead. The rest of the face was
in shadow, but she could see by the whiteness, through a beard that
clouded all the lower part of it, that he was smiling to himself: Mary
had said what pleased him, and his eyes sought her face, and seemed to
rest on it with a kind of trust, and a look as if he was ready to do
whatever she might ask of him.
"You will come?" said Mary.
"Yes, miss, with all my heart," he replied, and flashed a full smile
that rested upon Ann, and seemed to say he knew her not so hard as she
looked.
Rising, he tucked his violin under his arm, and showed himself ready to
follow.
"Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary.
"Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly. "I'm sorry for you both,
miss. But, until the spirit is poured out from on high, it's nothing
but a stumbling in the dark."
This last utterance was a reflection rather than a remark.
Mary made no reply. She did not care to have the last word; nor did she
fancy her cause lost when she had not at hand the answer that befitted
folly. She ran down the stair, and at the bottom stood waiting her new
acquaintance, who descended more slowly, careful not to make a noise.
She could now see, by the gaslight that burned on the landing, a little
more of what the man was. He was powerfully built, rather over middle
height, and about the age of thirty. His complexion was dark, and the
hand that held the bow looked grimy. He bore himself well, but a little
stiffly, with a care over his violin like that of a man carrying a
baby. He was decidedly handsome, in a rugged way--mouth and chin but
hinted through a thick beard of darkest brown.
"Come this way," said Mary, leading him into Letty's parlor. "I will
tell my friend you are come. Her room, you see, opens off this, and she
will hear you delightfully. Pray, take a seat."
"Thank you, miss," said the man, but remained standing.
"I have caught the bird, Letty," said Mary, loud enough for him to
hear; "and he is come to sing a little to you--if you feel strong
enough for it."
"It will do me good," said Letty. "How kind of him!"
The man, having heard, was already tuning his violin when Mary came
from the bedroom, and sat down on the sofa. The instant he had got it
to his mind, he turned, and, going to the farthest corner of the room,
closed his eyes tight, and began to play.
But how shall I describe that playing? how convey an idea of it,
however remote? I fear it is nothing less than presumption in me, so
great is my ignorance, to attempt the thing. But would it be right, for
dread of bringing shame upon me through failure, to leave my readers
without any notion of it at all? On the other hand, I shall, at least,
have the merit of daring to fail--a merit of which I could well be
ambitious.
If, then, my reader will imagine some music-loving sylph attempting to
guide the wind among the strings of an Aeolian harp, every now and then
for a moment succeeding, and then again for a while the wind having its
own way, he will gain, I think, something like a dream-notion of the
man's playing. Mary tried hard to get hold of some clew to the
combinations and sequences, but the motive of them she could not find.
Whatever their source, there was, either in the composition itself or
in his mode of playing, not a little of the inartistic, that is, the
lawless. Yet every now and then would come a passage of exquisite
melody, owing much, however, no doubt, to the marvelous delicacy of the
player's tones, and the utterly tender expression with which he
produced them. But ever as she thought to get some insight into the
movement of the man's mind, still would she be swept away on the storm
of some change, seeming of mood incongruous.
At length came a little pause. He wiped his forehead with a blue cotton
handkerchief, and seemed ready to begin again. Mary interrupted him
with the question:
"Will you please tell me whose music you have been playing?"
He opened his eyes, which had remained closed even while he stood
motionless, and, with a smile sweeter than any she had ever seen on
such a strong face, answered:
"It's nobody's, miss."
"Do you mean you have been extemporizing all this time?"
"I don't know exactly what that means."
"You must have learned it from notes?"
"I couldn't read them if I had any to read," he answered.
"Then what an ear and what a memory you must have! How often have you
heard it?"
"Just as often as I've played it, and no oftener. Not being able to
read, and seldom hearing any music I care for, I'm forced to be content
with what runs out at my fingers when I shut my eyes. It all comes of
shutting my eyes. I couldn't play a thing but for shutting my eyes.
It's a wonderful deal that comes of shutting your eyes! Did you never
try it, miss?"
Mary was so astonished both by what he said and the simplicity with
which he said it, having clearly no notion that he was uttering
anything strange, that she was silent, and the man, after a moment's
retuning, began again to play. Then did Mary gather all her listening
powers, and brace her attention to the tightest--but at first with no
better success. And, indeed, that was not the way to understand. It
seems to me, at least, in my great ignorance, that one can not
understand music unless he is humble toward it, and consents, if need
be, not to understand. When one is quiescent, submissive, opens the
ears of the mind, and demands of them nothing more than the
hearing--when the rising waters of question retire to their bed, and
individuality is still, then the dews and rains of music, finding the
way clear for them, soak and sink through the sands of the mind, down,
far down, below the thinking-place, down to the region of music, which
is the hidden workshop of the soul, the place where lies ready the
divine material for man to go making withal.
Weary at last with vain effort, she ceased to endeavor, and in a little
while was herself being molded by the music unconsciously received to
the further understanding of it. It wrought in her mind pictures, not
thoughts. It is possible, however, my later knowledge may affect my
description of what Mary then saw with her mind's eye.
First there was a crowd in slow, then rapid movement. Arose cries and
entreaties. Came hurried motions, disruption, and running feet. A pause
followed. Then woke a lively melody, changing to the prayer of some
soul too grateful to find words. Next came a bar or two of what seemed
calm, lovely speech, then a few slowly delivered chords, and all was
still.
She came to herself, and then first knew that, like sleep, the music
had seized her unawares, and she had been understanding, or at least
enjoying, without knowing it. The man was approaching her from his dark
corner. His face was shining, but plainly he did not intend more music,
for his violin was already under his arm. He made her a little awkward
bow--not much more than a nod, and turned to the door. He had it half
open, and not yet could Mary speak. For Letty, she was fast asleep.
From the top of the stair came the voice of Ann, screaming:
"Here's your hat, Joe. I knew you'd be going when you played that.
You'd have forgotten it, I know!"
Mary heard the hat come tumbling down the stair.
"Thank you, Ann," returned Joe. "Yes, I'm going. The ladies don't care
much for my music. Nobody does but myself. But, then, it's good for
me." The last two sentences were spoken in soliloquy, but Mary heard
them, for he stood with the handle of the door in his hand. He closed
it, picked up his hat, and went softly down the stair.
The spell was broken, and Mary darted to the door. But, just as she
opened it, the outer door closed behind the strange musician, and she
had not even learned his name.