"Mine Cremona"
Lynn went up the hill with a long, swinging stride. The morning was in
his heart and it seemed good to be alive. His blood fairly sang in his
pulses, and his cheery whistle was as natural and unconscious as the
call of the robin in the maple thicket beyond.
The German housewives left their work and came out to see him pass, for
strangers in West Lancaster were so infrequent as to cause extended
comment, and he left behind him a trail of sharp glances and nodding
heads. The entire hill was instantly alive with gossip which buzzed back
and forth like a hive of liberated bees. It was a sturdy dame near the
summit who quelled it, for the time being.
"So," she said to her next-door neighbour, "I was right. He will be
going to the Master's."
The word went quickly down the line, and after various speculations
regarding his possible errand, the neglected household tasks were taken
up and the hill was quiet again, except for the rosy-cheeked children
who played stolidly in their bits of dooryards.
Lynn easily recognised the house, though he had seen it but dimly the
night before. It was two stories in height, but very small, and, in some
occult way, reminded one of a bird-house. It was perched almost upon the
ledge, and its western windows overlooked the valley, filled with
tossing willow plumes, the winding river, half asleep in its mantle of
grey and silver, and the range of blue hills beyond.
It was the only house upon the hill which boasted two front entrances.
Through the shining windows of the lower story, on a level with the
street, he saw violins in all stages of making, but otherwise, the room
was empty. So he climbed the short flight of steps and rang the bell.
The wire was slack and rusty, but after two or three trials a mournful
clang came from the depths of the interior. At last the door was opened,
cautiously, by a woman whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingers
betrayed her recent occupation.
"I beg your pardon," said Irving, making his best bow. "Is Herr Kaufmann
at home?"
"Not yet," she replied, "he will have gone for his walk. You will be
coming in?"
She asked the question as though she feared an affirmative answer. "If I
may, please," he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon the mat. "Do
you expect him soon?"
"Yes." She ushered him into the front room and pointed to a chair. "You
will please excuse me," she said.
"Certainly! Do not let me detain you."
Left to himself, he looked about the room with amused curiosity. The
furnishings were a queer combination of primitive American ideas and
modern German fancies, overlaid with a feminine love of superfluous
ornament. The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in everything, and
purples, reds, and yellows were closely intermingled. The exquisite
neatness of the place was its redeeming feature.
Apparently, there were two other rooms on the same floor--a combined
kitchen and dining-room was just back of the parlour, and a smaller
room opened off of it. Lynn was meditating upon Herr Kaufmann's
household arrangements, when a wonderful object upon the table in the
corner attracted his attention, and he went over to examine it.
Obviously, it had once been a section of clay drainage pipe, but in its
sublimated estate it was far removed from common uses. It had been
smeared with putty, and, while plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails,
keys, clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other things not usually
associated with drainage pipes. When dry, it had been given further
distinction by two or three coats of gold paint.
A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near the top of it, was rendered
so ridiculous by the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, influenced
by the sound of the scrubbing-brush close at hand, he endeavoured to
cover it with a cough. He was too late, however, for, almost
immediately, his hostess appeared in the doorway.
"Mine crazy jug," she said, with gratified pride beaming from every
feature.
"I was just looking at it," responded Lynn. "It is marvellous. Did you
make it yourself?"
"Yes, I make him mineself," she said, and then retreated, blushing with
innocent pleasure.
Not knowing what else to do, he went back to his chair and sat down
again, carefully avoiding the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses.
Outside, the street was deserted. He wondered what type of a man it was
who could live in the same house with a "crazy jug" and play as Herr
Kaufmann played, only last night. Then he reflected that the room had
been dark, and smiled at his foolish fancy.
A square piano took up one whole side of the room, and there were two
violins upon it. Unthinkingly, Lynn investigated. The first one was a
good instrument of modern make, and the other--he caught his breath as
he took it out of its case. The thin, fine shell was the beautiful body
of a Cremona, enshrining a Cremona's still more beautiful soul.
He touched it reverently, though his hands trembled and his face was
aglow. He snapped a string with his finger and the violin answered with
a deep, resonant tone, but before the sound had died away, there was an
exclamation of horror in his ears and a firm grip upon his arm.
"Mine brudder's Cremona!" cried the woman, her eyes flashing lightnings
of anger. "You will at once put him down!"
"I beg a thousand pardons! I did not realise--I did not mean--I did not
understand----" He went on with confused explanations and apologies
which availed him nothing. He stood before her, convicted and shamed, as
one who had profaned the household god.
Wiping her hands upon her apron, she went to her work-box, took out her
knitting, and sat down between Lynn and the piano. The chair was hard
and uncompromising, with an upright back, but she disdained even that
support and sat proudly erect.
There was no sound save the click of the needles, and she kept her eyes
fixed upon her work. After an awkward silence, Lynn made one or two
tentative efforts toward conversation, but each opening proved
fruitless, and at length he seriously meditated flight.
The approach to the door was covered, but there were plenty of windows,
and it would be an easy drop to the ground. He smiled as he saw himself,
mentally, achieving escape in this manner and running all the way home.
"I wonder," he mused, "where in the dickens 'mine brudder' is!"
The face of the woman before him was still flushed and the movement of
the needles betrayed her excitement. He noted that she wore no wedding
ring and surmised that she was a little older than his mother. Her
features were hard, and her thin, straight hair was brushed tightly back
and fastened in a little knot at the back of her head. It was not unlike
a door knob, and he began to wonder what would happen if he should turn
it.
His irrepressible spirits bubbled over and he coughed violently into his
handkerchief, feeling himself closely scrutinised meanwhile. The
situation was relieved by the sound of footsteps and the vigorous slam
of the lower door.
Still keeping the piano, with its precious burden, within range of her
vision, Fraeulein Kaufmann moved toward the door. "Franz! Franz!" she
called. "Come here!"
"One minute!" The voice was deep and musical and had a certain lyric
quality. When he came up, there was a conversation in indignant German
which was brief but sufficient.
"I can see," said Lynn to himself, "that I am not to study with Herr
Kaufmann."
Just then he came in, gave Lynn a quick, suspicious glance, took up the
Cremona, and strode out. He was gone so long that Lynn decided to
retreat in good order. He picked up his hat and was half way out of his
chair when he heard footsteps and waited.
"Now," said the Master, "you would like to speak with me?"
He was of medium height, had keen, dark eyes, bushy brows, ruddy cheeks,
and a mass of grey hair which he occasionally shook back like a mane. He
had the typical hands of the violinist.
"Yes," answered Lynn, "I want to study with you."
"Study what?" Herr Kaufmann's tone was somewhat brusque. "Manners?"
"The violin," explained Irving, flushing.
"So? You make violins?"
"No--I want to play."
"Oh," said the other, looking at him sharply, "it is to play! Well, I
can teach you nothing."
He rose, as though to intimate that the interview was at an end, but
Lynn was not so easily turned aside. "Herr Kaufmann," he began, "I have
come hundreds of miles to study with you. We have broken up our home and
have come to live in East Lancaster for that one purpose."
"I am flattered," observed the Master, dryly. "May I ask how you have
heard of me so far away as many hundred miles?"
"Why, everybody knows of you! When I was a little child, I can remember
my mother telling me that some day I should study with the great Herr
Kaufmann. It is the dream of her life and of mine."
"A bad dream," remarked the violinist, succinctly. "May I ask your
mother's name?"
"Mrs. Irving--Margaret Irving."
"Margaret," repeated the old man in a different tone. "Margaret."
There was a long silence, then the boy began once more. "You'll take me,
won't you?"
For an instant the Master seemed on the point of yielding,
unconditionally, then he came to himself with a start. "One moment," he
said, clearing his throat. "Why did you lift up mine Cremona?"
The piercing eyes were upon him and Lynn's colour mounted to his
temples, but he met the gaze honestly. "I scarcely know why," he
answered. "I was here alone, I had been waiting a long time, and it has
always been natural for me to look at violins. I think we all do things
for which we can give no reason. I certainly had no intention of harming
it, nor of offending anybody. I am very sorry."
"Well," sighed the Master, "I should not have left it out. Strangers
seldom come here, but I, too, was to blame. Fredrika takes it to
herself; she thinks that she should have left her scrubbing and sat with
you, but of that I am not so sure. It is mine Cremona," he went on,
bitterly, "nobody touches it but mineself."
His distress was very real, and, for the first time, Irving felt a throb
of sympathy. However unreasonable it might be, however weak and
childish, he saw that he had unwittingly touched a tender place. All the
love of the hale old heart was centred upon the violin, wooden,
inanimate--but no. Nothing can be inanimate, which is sweetheart and
child in one.
"Herr Kaufmann," said Lynn, "believe me, if any act of mine could wipe
away my touch, I should do it here and now. As it is, I can only ask
your pardon."
"We will no longer speak of it," returned the Master, with quiet
dignity. "We will attempt to forget."
He went to the window and stood with his back to Irving for a long time.
"What could I have done?" thought Lynn. "I only picked it up and laid it
down again--I surely did not harm it."
He was too young to see that it was the significance, rather than the
touch; that the old man felt as a lover might who saw his beloved in the
arms of another. The bloom was gone from the fruit, the fragrance from
the rose. For twenty-five years and more, the Cremona had been sacredly
kept.
The Master's thoughts had leaped that quarter-century at a single bound.
Again he stood in the woods beyond East Lancaster, while the sky was
dark with threatening clouds and the dead leaves scurried in fright
before the north wind. Beside him stood a girl of twenty, her face white
and her sweet mouth quivering.
"You must take it," she was saying. "It is mine to do with as I please,
and no one will ever know. If anyone asks, I can fix it someway. It is
part of myself that I give you, so that in all the years, you will not
forget me. When you touch it, it will be as though you took my hand in
yours. When it sings to you, it will be my voice saying: 'I love you!'
And in it you will find all the sweetness of this one short year. All
the pain will be blotted out and only the joy will be left--the joy that
we can never know!"
Her voice broke in a sob, then the picture faded in a mist of blinding
tears. Dull thunders boomed afar, and he felt her lips crushed for an
instant against his own. When clear sight came back, the storm was
raging, and he was alone.
Irving waited impatiently, for he was restless and longed to get away,
but he dared not speak. At last the old man turned away from the window,
his face haggard and grey.
"You will take me?" asked Lynn, with a note of pleading in his question.
"Yes," sighed the Master, "I take you. Tuesdays and Fridays at ten.
Bring your violin and what music you have. We will see what you have
done and what you can do. Good-bye."
He did not seem to see Lynn's offered hand, and the boy went out, sorely
troubled by something which seemed just outside his comprehension. He
walked for an hour in the woods before going home, and in answer to
questions merely said that he had been obliged to wait for some time,
but that everything was satisfactorily arranged.
"Isn't he an old dear?" asked Iris.
"I don't know," answered Lynn. "Is he?"