The faculty of music is generally, I believe, inimical to the
development of all the other faculties. Sufficient to itself is the
composing gift. There was scarcely ever yet a born musician, I do
declare, who, outside his birthright, was not a born ass. I say it
with the less irreverence, because my uncle was patently one of the
rare exceptions which prove the rule. He knew his Shakespeare as well
as his musical-glasses—better than, in fact; for he was a staunch
Baconian. This was all the odder because—as was both early and late
impressed upon me—he had a strong sense of humour. Perhaps an eternal
study of the hieroglyphics of the leger lines was responsible for his
craze; for craze I still insist it was, in spite of the way he took to
convince me of the value of cryptograms. I was an obstinate pupil, I
confess, and withstood to the end the fire of all the big guns which
he—together with my friend, Chaunt, who was in the same line—brought
to bear upon me.
Well, I was honest, at least; for I was my uncle’s sole provisional
legatee, and heir presumptive to whatever small fortune he had amassed
during his career. And day by day, as the breach between us widened, I
saw my prospect of the succession attenuating, and would not budge
from my position. No, Shakespeare was Shakespeare, I said, and Bacon,
Bacon; and not all the cyphers in the world should convince me that
any profit was to be gained by either imagining or unravelling a
single one of them.
“What, no profit!” roared my uncle. “But I will persuade you, young
man, of your mistake before I’m done with you. Hum-ti-diddledidee! No
profit, hey? H’m—well!”
Then I saw that the end was come. And, indeed, it was an open quarrel
between us, and I was forbidden to call upon him again.
I was sorry for this, because, in his more frolicsome and
uncontroversial moments, he was a genial companion, unless or until
one inadvertently touched on _the_ theme, when at once he exploded.
Professionally, he _could_ be quite a rollicking blade, and his
settings of plantation songs were owned to be nothing less than lyric
inspirations. Pantomime, too, in the light of his incidental music,
had acquired something more than a classical complexion; and, in the
domain of knockabout extravaganza, not only did the score of “The Girl
who Knew a Thing or Two” owe to him its most refined numbers, but also
the libretto, it was whispered, its best Attic _bonnes-bouches_.
However, all that good company I must now forgo—though Chaunt tried
vainly to heal the breach between us—and in the end the old man died,
without any visible relenting towards me.
I felt his loss pretty keenly, though it is no callousness in me to
admit that our long separation had somewhat dulled the edge of my
attachment. I expected, of course, no testamentary consideration from
him, and was only more surprised than uplifted to receive one morning
a request from his lawyers to visit them at my convenience. So I went,
soberly enough, and introduced myself.
“No,” said the partner to whom I was admitted, in answer to a question
of mine: “I am not in a position to inform you who is the principal
beneficiary under our friend’s will. I can only tell you—what a few
days before his death he confided to us, and what, I think, under the
circumstances, you are entitled to learn—that he had quite recently,
feeling his end approaching, realized on the bulk of his capital,
converted the net result into a certain number—five, I think he
mentioned—of Bank of England notes, and… burned ’em, for all we know
to the contrary.”
“Burned them!” I murmured aghast.
“I don’t say so,” corrected the lawyer drily. “I only say, you know,
that we are not instructed to the contrary. Your uncle” (he coughed
slightly) “had his eccentricities. Perhaps he swallowed ’em; perhaps
gave ’em away at the gate. Our dealings are, beyond yourself, solely
with the residuary legatee, who is, or was, his housekeeper. For her
benefit, moreover, the furniture and effects of our late client are to
be sold, always excepting a few more personal articles, which,
together with a sealed enclosure, we are desired to hand over to you.”
He signified, indeed, my bequest as he spoke. It lay on a table behind
him: A bound volume of minutes of the Baconian Society; a volume of
Ignatius Donnelly’s Great Cryptogram; a Chippendale tea-caddy (which,
I was softened to think, the old man had often known me to admire); a
large piece of foolscap paper twisted into a cone, and a penny with
which to furnish myself with a mourning ring out of a cracker.
I blushed to my ears, regarding the show; and then, to convince this
person of my good-humoured sanity, giggled like an idiot. He did not
even smile in reply, the self-important ass, but, with a manner of
starchy condescension, as to a wastrel who was getting all his
deserts, rose from his chair, unlocked a safe, took an ordinary sealed
envelope from it, handed it to me, and informed me that, upon giving
him a receipt, I was at liberty to remove the lot.
“Thanks,” I said, grinding my astral teeth. “Am I to open this in your
presence?”
“Quite inessential,” he answered; and, upon ascertaining that I should
like a cab called, sent for one.
“Good morning,” he said, when at last it was announced (he had not
spoken a word in the interval): “I wish you good morning,” in the
morally patronizing tone of a governor discharging a prisoner.
I responded coldly; tried, for no reason at all, to look threatening;
failed utterly, and went out giggling again. Quite savagely I threw my
goods upon the seat, snapped out my address, closed the apron upon my
abasement, and sat slunk into the cavity behind, like a salted and
malignant snail.
Presently I thumped the books malevolently. The dear old man was
grotesque beyond reason. Really he needn’t have left life cutting a
somersault, as it were.
But, as I cooled outwardly, a warmer thought would intrude. It drew,
somehow, from the heart of that little enclosure lying at the moment
in my pocket. It was ridiculous, of course, to expect anything of it
but some further development of a rather unkind jest. My uncle’s
professional connexion with burlesque had rather warped, it would
appear, his sense of humour. Still, I could not but recall that story
of the conversion of his capital into notes: and an envelope——!
Bah! (I wriggled savagely). It was idiotic beyond measure so to
flatter myself. Our recent relations had precluded for ever any such
possibility. The holocaust, rather! The gift to a chance passer-by, as
suggested by that fool of a lawyer! I stared out of the window,
humming viciously, and telling myself it was only what I ought to
expect; that such a vagary was distinctly in accordance with the
traditions of low comedy. It will be observed that I was very
contemptuous of buffoonery as a profession. Paradoxically, a joke is
never played so low as when it is played on our lofty selves.
Nevertheless, I was justified, it appeared. It may be asked, Why did I
not at once settle the matter by opening the envelope in the cab?
Well, I just temporized with my gluttony, till, like the greedy boy, I
could examine my box in private—only to find that the rats had
devoured all my cake. It was not till I was shut into my sitting-room
that I dared at length to break the seal, and to withdraw——
Even as it came out, with no suggestion of a reassuring crackle, I
realized my fate. And this was it: please to examine it carefully—
[IMAGE: images/img_197.jpg, “Musical notes”]
Now, what do you make of it? “_Ex nihilo nihil fit_,” I think you will
say with me. It was literally thus, carefully penned in the middle of
a single sheet of music-paper—a phrase, or _motif_, I suppose it
would be called—an undeveloped memorandum, in fact—nothing else
whatever. I let the thing drop from my hand.
No doubt there was some capping jest here, some sneer, some vindictive
sarcasm. I was not musician enough to tell, even had I had spirit for
the endeavour. It was unworthy, at least, of the old man—much more,
or less, than I deserved. I had been his favourite once. Strange how
the _idée fixe_ could corrode an otherwise tractable reason. In
justice to myself I must insist that quite half my disappointment was
in the realization that such dislike, due to such a trifle, could have
come to usurp the old affection.
By and by I rose dismally, and carried the jest to the piano. (Half a
crown a day my landlady exacted from me, if I so much as thumped on
the old wreck with one finger, which was the extent of my talent.)
Well, I was reckless, and the theme appeared ridiculously simple. But
I could make nothing of it—not though Mrs. Dexter came up in the
midst, and congratulated me on my performance.
When she was gone I took the thing to my chair again, and resumed its
study despondently. And presently Chaunt came in.
“Hullo!” he said: “how’s the blooming legatee?”
“Pretty blooming, thanks,” I said. “Would you like to speculate in my
reversion? Half a crown down to Mrs. Dexter, and the use of the tin
kettle for the day.”
“Done,” he said, “so far as the piano’s concerned. Let’s see what
you’ve got there.”
He had known of my prospective visit to the lawyers, and had dropped
in to congratulate me on _that_ performance. I acquainted him with the
result; showed him the books, and the tea-caddy, and the penny, and
the remnants of foolscap—finally, handed him the crowning jest for
inspection.
“Pretty thin joke, isn’t it?” I growled dolefully. “Curse the money,
anyhow! But I didn’t think it of the old man. I suppose you can make
no more of that than I can?”
He was squinting at the paper as he held it up, and rubbing his jaw,
stuck out at an angle, grittily.
“H’m!” he said, quite suddenly, “I’d go out for a walk and revive
myself, if I were you. I intend to hold you to that piano, for my
part; and you wouldn’t be edified.”
“No,” I said: “I’ve had enough of music for a lifetime or so! I fancy
I’ll go, if you won’t think me rude.”
“On the contrary,” he murmured, in an absorbed way; and I left him.
I took a longish spin, and returned, on the whole refreshed, in a
couple of hours. He was still there; but he had finished, it appeared,
with the piano.
“Well,” he said, rising and yawning, “you’ve been a deuce of a time
gone; but here you are”—and he held out to me indifferently a little
crackling bundle.
Without a word I took it from his hand—parted, stretched, and
explored it.
“Good God!” I gasped: “five notes of a thousand apiece!”
He was rolling a cigarette.
“Yes,” he drawled, “that’s the figure, I believe.”
“For me?”
“For you—from your uncle.”
“But—how?”
He lighted, took a serene puff or two, drew the _jest_ from his
pocket, and, throwing it on a chair, “You’ll have to allow some value
to cryptograms at last,” he said, and sat down to enjoy himself.
“Chaunt!”
“O,” he said, “it was a bagatelle. An ass might have brayed it out at
sight.”
“Please, I am something less than an ass. Please will you interpret
for me?” I said humbly.
He neighed out—I beg _his_ pardon—a great laugh at last.
“O,” he cried: “your uncle was true blue; he stuck to his guns; but I
never really supposed he meant to disinherit you, Johnny. You always
had the first place in his heart, for all your obstinacy. He took his
own way to convince you, that was all. Pretty poor stuff it is, I’m
bound to confess; but enough to run _your_ capacities to extinction.
Here, hand it over.”
“Don’t be hard on me,” I protested, giving him the paper. “If I’m all
that you say, it was as good as cutting me off with a penny.”
“No,” he answered: “because he knew very well that you’d apply to me
to help you out of the difficulty.”
“Well, help me,” I said, “and, in the matter of Bacon, I’ll promise to
be a fool convinced against my will.”
“No doubt,” he answered drily, and came and sat beside me. “Look
here,” he said; and I looked:—
[IMAGE: images/img_200.jpg, “Musical notes”]
“You know your notes, anyhow,” said he. “Well, you’ve only got to read
off these into their alphabetical equivalents, and cut the result into
perfectly obvious lengths. It’s child’s play so far; and, indeed, in
everything, unless this rum-looking metronome beat, or whatever it may
be, bothers you for a moment.”
He put his finger on the crazy device perched up independently in the
left-hand corner; and then came down to the lines again.
“Let that be for the moment,” said he. “It don’t much signify, after
all. How do these notes go? that’s the main question. Read ’em off.”