Whereas it is far away from bloodshed, battle-cry and
sword-thrust that the lives of most of us flow on, and the
men's tears are silent to-day, and invisible, and almost
spiritual....--MAETERLINCK.
Racah hated music. Even his father quoted with approval Théophile
Gautier's witticism about it being the most costly of noises. Racah, as
a boy, shouted under the windows of neighbors in whose rooms
string-music was heard of hot summer evenings. On every occasion his
nature testified to its lively abhorrence of tone, and once he was
violently thrust forth from a church by an excited sexton. Racah had
whistled derisively at the feebly executed voluntary of the organist. An
old friend of the family declared that the boy should be trained as a
music critic--he hated music so intensely. Racah's father would arch his
meagre eyebrows and crisply say, "My son shall become a priest." "But
even a priest must chaunt the mass; eh, what?"
The boy's sister had a piano and tried to play despite his violent
mockery. One afternoon, when the sun drove the town to its siesta, he
wandered into the room where stood the instrument. Moved by an automatic
impulse, the lad placed one finger on a treble key. He shuddered as it
tinkled under the pressure; then he struck the major third and held both
keys down, trembling, while drops of water formed under his eyes. He
hated the sound he made, but could not resist listening to it. Waves of
disgust rolled hotly over his heart, and he almost choked from the
large, bitter-tasting ball that rose in his throat. He then struck the
triad of C major in a clumsy way--a quarter of an hour later his family
found him in a syncope at the foot of the piano, and sent for a doctor.
Racah's eyes were open, but only the whites showed. The pulse was
strangely intermittent, the heart muffled, and the doctor set it down to
nervous prostration brought on by strenuous attendance at church. It was
Holy Week and Racah a pious boy.
He soon recovered, avoided the instrument, and kept his peace.... About
this time he began going out immediately after supper, remaining away
until midnight. This, coupled with a relaxation of religious zeal, drove
his pious father into a frenzy of disappointment. But being wise in old
age, he did not pester his son, especially as the pale, melancholy lad
bore on his face no signs of dissipation. These disappearances lasted
for over a year. Racah was chided by his mother, a large,
chicken-minded woman, who liked gossip and chocolate. He never answered
her, and on Sundays locked himself in his room. Once his sister listened
at the door and told her father that she heard her brother counting
aloud and clicking on the table with some soft, dull-edged tool, a tiny
mallet, perhaps.
The father's curiosity mounted to an unhealthy pitch. He hated to break
into his nightly custom of playing cards at the Inn of The Quarrelling
Yellow Cats, but his duty lay as plain before him as the moles on his
wrist; so he waited until Racah went out, and seizing a stout stick and
clapping his hat on his head, followed his son in lagging and deceitful
pursuit. The boy walked slowly, his head thrown back in reverie. Several
times he halted as if the burden of his thoughts clogged his very
motion. Anxiously eying him, his father sneaked after. The eccentric
movements of his son filled him with a certain anguish. He was a
god-fearing man; erratic behavior meant to him the obsession of the
devil.
His son, his Racah, was tempted by the evil one! What could he do to
save him from the fiery pit? Urged by these burdensome notions, he cried
aloud, "Racah, my son, return to thy home!" But he spoke to space. No
one was within hearing. The street was dark; then the sound of music
fell upon his ears, and again he looked about him. Racah had
disappeared. The only light came from a window hard by. With the music
it oozed out between two half-closed shutters, and toward it the
depressed one went. He peeped in and saw his son playing at a piano, and
by his side sat a queer old man beating time. His name was Spinoza; he
was a Portuguese pianist, and wore a tall, battered silk hat which he
never removed, even in bed--so the town said.
Racah's father played no dominoes that night. When he returned to his
house his wife thought that he was drunk. He told his story in agitated
accents, and went to bed a mystified man. He understood nothing, and
while his wife calmly slept he tortured himself with questions. How came
Racah the priest to be metamorphosed into Racah the pianist? Then the
father plucked at the counterpane like a dying fiddler....
The boy showed no embarrassment when interrogated by his parents the
next day. He said he did not desire to be a priest, that a pianist could
make more money, and though he hated music, there were harder ways of
earning one's bread. The callousness which he displayed in saying all
this deeply pained his pious father. His son's secret nature was an
enigma to him. In vain he endeavored to pierce the meaning of the
youth's eyes, but their gaze was enigmatic and veiled. Racah had ever
exhibited a certain aloofness of character, and as he grew older this
trait became intensified; the riddle of his life had forced itself upon
him, and he vainly wrestled with it. Music drew him as iron filings to
the magnet, or as the tentacles of an octopus carry to its parrot-shaped
beak its victim. It was monstrous, he abhorred it, but could no more
resist it than the hasheesh eater his drug.
So in the fury of despair, and with a certain self-contempt, he strove
desperately to master the technical problems of his art. He found an
abettor in the person of the Portuguese pianist, to whom he laid bare
his soul. He studied every night, and since he need no longer conceal
his secret, he began practising at home....
Racah made his début when he was twenty-one years old. The friend of the
family nearly burst a blood-vessel at the concert, so enthusiastic was
he over the son of his old crony. Racah's father stayed home and refused
comfort. His son was a pianist and not a priest. "He has disgraced
himself and God will not reply to his call for aid," and he placed his
hands over his thin eyebrows and wept. Racah's mother spoke: "Take on
courage; the boy plays badly--there is yet hope."
The good man, elated by the idea, went forth to play dominoes with his
old crony at the inn where the two yellow cats quarrel on the dingy sign
over the door....
Racah sat at his piano. His usually smooth, high forehead, with its mop
of heavy black curls, was corrugated with little puckering lines. His
mouth was drawn at the corners, and from time to time he sighed; great
groans, too, burst forth from him. But he played, played furiously, and
he smote the keyboard as if he hated it. He was playing the B minor
Sonata of Chopin, with its melting second movement--so moving that it
could melt the heart of the right sort of a stone. Yet this lovely
cantilena extorted anger from the young pianist. It was true that he
played badly, but not so badly as his mother imagined. His very hatred
of music reverberated in his playing and produced an odd, inverted,
temperamental spark. The transposition of an emotion into a lower or
higher key may change its external expression; its intensity is not
thereby altered. Racah hated the piano, hated Chopin, hated music; yet
potentially Racah was a great pianist....
The years fugued by. Racah gradually became known as an artist of
strange power. He had studied with Liszt, although he was not a favorite
of the master nor in his cenacle of worshipping pupils. Racah was too
grim, too much in earnest for the worldly frivolous crew that flitted
over the black keys at Weimar. Occasionally aroused by the power and
intensity of the young man's playing, Liszt would smile satirically and
say: "Thou art well named 'Raca,'" and then all the Jews in the class
would laugh at the word-play. But it gave Racah little concern whether
they admired or loathed him. He was terribly set upon playing the piano
and little guessed the secret of his inner struggle--the secret of the
sad spirit that travailed against itself. Oddly enough his progress was
rapid. He soon outpointed in brilliancy and deftness the most talented
of the group of Liszt's young people, and once, after playing the
Mephisto Walzer with abounding devilry, Liszt cried, "Bravo, child," and
then muttered, "And how he hates it all!"
Hypnotized as if by another's will, Racah studied so earnestly that he
became a public pianist. He had success, but not with the great public.
The critics called him cold, objective, a pianist made, not born. But
musicians and those with cultured musical palates discerned a certain
acid quality in his playing. His gloomy visage, the reflex of a
disordered soul, caused Baudelaire to declare that he had added one more
shiver to his extensive psychical collection. In Paris the Countess
X.--charming, titled soubrette--said, "Have you heard Racah play the
piano? He is a damned soul out for a holiday."
In twenty-four hours this mot spread the length of the Boulevard, and
all Paris went to see the new pianist....
Success did not brighten the glance of Racah. He became gloomier as he
grew older, and a prominent alienist in Paris warned him to travel or
else--and he pointed to his forehead, shrugging his very Gallic
shoulders. Racah immediately went to the far East....
After a year's wandering up and down strange and curious countries, he
came to the chief city of a barbarous province ruled by a man famous for
his ferocities and charming culture. A careful education in Paris,
grafted upon a nature cruel to the core, produced the most delicately
depraved disposition imaginable. This Rajah was given to the
paradoxical. He adored Chopin and loved to roast alive tiny birds on
dainty golden grills. He would weep after reading de Musset, and a
moment later watch with infinite satisfaction the spectacle of two
wretched women dancing on heated copper plates. When he heard of Racah's
presence in his kingdom he summoned the pianist.
Racah obeyed the Rajah's order. To his surprise he found him a man of
pleasing mien and address. He was dressed in clothes of English cut, and
possessed a concert piano. Racah bowed to him on entering the great Hall
of the Statues.
"Do you play Chopin?"
"No," was the curt reply. The potentate glanced at the pianist, and then
dropped his heavy eyelids. Racah had the air of a man bored to death.
"I entreat you"--the Rajah had winning accents--"play me something of
Chopin. I adore Chopin."
"Your Highness, I abominate Chopin; I abominate music. I have taken a
vow never to play again anything of that vile Polish composer. But I may
play for you instead a Brahms sonata. The great one in F minor--"
"Stop a moment! You distinctly refuse to play me a Chopin valse or
mazurka?"
"O Villainy!" Racah was thoroughly aroused; "I swear by the beard of
your silly prophet that I will not play Chopin, nor touch your piano!"
The Rajah listened with a sweet forbearing smile. Then he clapped his
hands twice--thrice. A slave entered. To him the Rajah spoke quietly,
with an amused expression, and the man bowed his head. Touching the
pianist on the shoulder he said:
"Come with me." Racah followed. The Rajah burst into loud laughter, and
going to the piano played the D flat Valse of Chopin in a facile
amateurish fashion.
Footsteps were heard; the Rajah stopped and looked up. There was bright
frank expectancy in his gaze as he listened.
Then a curtain was thrust aside. Racah staggered in, supported by the
attendant. He was white, helpless, fainting, and in his eyes were the
shadows of infinite regret.
"Do play some Chopin," exclaimed the Rajah, gaily, as he ran his fingers
over the keyboard.
The pianist groaned as the slave plucked at his arms and held them
aloft. The Rajah critically viewed the hands from which the fingertips
were missing, and then, noting the remorseful anguish in the gaze of the
other, he cried:
"Do you know, I really believe you love music despite yourself!"