"How do you get on with the Master?" asked Iris.
"After a fashion," answered Irving; "but I do not get on with Fraeulein
Fredrika at all. She despises me."
"She does not like many people."
"So it would seem. I have been unfortunate from the first, though I was
careful to admire 'mine crazy jug.'"
"It is the apple of her eye," laughed Iris, "it means to her just what
his Cremona means to him."
"It is a wonderful creation, and I told her so, but where in the dickens
did she get the idea?"
"Don't ask me. Did you happen to notice anything else?"
"No--only the violin. Sometimes I take my lesson in the parlour,
sometimes in the shop downstairs, or even in Herr Kaufmann's bedroom,
which opens off of it. When I come, he stops whatever he happens to be
doing, sits down, and proceeds with my education."
"On the floor," said Iris reminiscently, "she has a gold jar which
contains cat tails and grasses. It is Herr Kaufmann's silk hat, which he
used to have when he played in the famous orchestra, with the brim cut
off and plenty of gold paint put on. The gilded potato-masher, with blue
roses on it, which swings from the hanging lamp, was done by your humble
servant. She has loved me ever since."
"Iris!" exclaimed Lynn, reproachfully. "How could you!"
"How could I what?"
"Paint anything so outrageous as that?"
"My dear boy," said Miss Temple, patronisingly, with her pretty head a
little to one side, "you are young in the ways of the world. I was not
achieving a work of art; I was merely giving pleasure to the Fraeulein.
Much trouble would be saved if people who undertake to give pleasure
would consult the wishes of the recipient in preference to their own.
Tastes differ, as even you may have observed. Personally, I have no use
for a gilded potato-masher--I couldn't even live in the same house with
one,--but I was pleasing her, not myself."
"I wonder what I could do that would please her," said Lynn, half to
himself.
"Make her something out of nothing," suggested Iris. "She would like
that better than anything else. She has a wall basket made of a fish
broiler, a chair that was once a barrel, a dresser which has been
evolved from a packing box, a sofa that was primarily a cot, and a match
box made from a tin cup covered with silk and gilded on the inside, not
to mention heaps of other things."
"Then what is left for me? The desirable things seem to have been used
up."
"Wait," said Iris, "and I'll show you." She ran off gaily, humming
a little song under her breath, and came back presently with a
clothes-pin, a sheet of orange-coloured tissue paper, an old black
ostrich feather, and her paints.
"What in the world--" began Lynn.
"Don't be impatient, please. Make the clothes-pin gold, with a black
head, and then I'll show you what to do next."
"Aren't you going to help me?"
"Only with my valuable advice--it is your gift, you know."
Awkwardly, Lynn gilded the clothes-pin and suspended it from the back of
a chair to dry. "I hope she'll like it," he said. "She pointed to me
once and said something in German to her brother. I didn't understand,
but I remembered the words, and when I got home I looked them up in my
dictionary. As nearly as I could get it, she had characterised me as 'a
big, lumbering calf.'"
"Discerning woman," commented Iris. "Now, take this sheet of tissue
paper and squeeze it up into a little ball, then straighten it out and
do it again. When it's all soft and crinkly, I'll tell you what to do
next."
"There," exclaimed Lynn, finally, "if it's squeezed up any more it will
break."
"Now paint the head of the clothes-pin and make some straight black
lines on the middle of it, cross ways."
"Will you please tell me what I'm making?"
"Wait and see!"
Obeying instructions, he fastened the paper tightly in the fork of the
clothes-pin, and spread it out on either side. The corners were cut and
pulled into the semblance of wings, and black circles were painted here
and there. Iris herself added the finishing touch--two bits of the
ostrich feather glued to the top of the head for antennae.
"Oh," cried Lynn, in pleased surprise, "a butterfly!"
"How hideous!" said Margaret, pausing in the doorway. "I trust it's not
meant for me."
"It's for the Fraeulein," answered Iris, gathering up her paints and
sweeping aside the litter. "Lynn has made it all by himself."
"I wonder how he stands it," mused Irving, critically inspecting the
butterfly.
"I asked him once," said Iris, "if he liked all the queer things in his
house, and he shrugged his shoulders. 'What good is mine art to me,' he
asked, 'if it makes me so I cannot live with mine sister? Fredrika likes
the gay colours, such as one sees in the fields, but they hurt mine
eyes. Still because the tidies and the crazy jug swear to me, it is no
reason for me to hurt mine sister's feelings. We have a large house.
Fredrika has the upstairs and I have the downstairs. When I can no
longer stand the bright lights, I can turn mine back and look out of the
window, or I can go down in the shop with mine violins. Down there I see
no colours and I can put mine feet on all chairs.'"
Lynn laughed, but Margaret, who was listening intently, only smiled
sadly.
That afternoon, when the boy went up the hill, with the butterfly
dangling from his hand by a string, he was greeted with childish cries
of delight on either side. Hoping for equal success at the Master's, he
rang the bell, and the Fraeulein came to the door. When she saw who it
was, her face instantly became hard and forbidding.
"Mine brudder is not home," she said, frostily.
"I know," answered Lynn, with a winning smile, "but I came to see you.
See, I made this for you."
Wonder and delight were in her eyes as she took it from his outstretched
hand. "For me?"
"Yes, all for you. I made it."
"You make this for me by yourself alone?"
"No, Miss Temple helped me."
"Miss Temple," repeated the Fraeulein, "she is most kind. And you
likewise," she hastened to add. "It will be of a niceness if Miss Temple
and you shall come to mine house to tea to-morrow evening."
"I'll ask her," he returned, "and thank you very much." Thus Lynn made
his peace with Fraeulein Fredrika.
* * * * *
Laughing like two irresponsible children, they went up the hill together
at the appointed time. Lynn's arms were full of wild crab-apple blooms,
which he had taken a long walk to find, and Iris had two little pots of
preserves as her contribution to the feast.
Their host and hostess were waiting for them at the door. Fraeulein
Fredrika was very elegant in her best gown, and her sharp eyes were
kind. The Master was clad in rusty black, which bore marks of frequent
sponging and occasional pressing. "It is most kind," he said, bowing
gallantly to Iris; "and you, young man, I am glad to see you, as
always."
Iris found a stone jar for the apple blossoms and brought them in. The
Master's fine old face beamed as he drew a long breath of pink and
white sweetness. "It is like magic," he said. "I think inside of every
tree there must be some beautiful young lady, such as we read about in
the old books--a young lady something like Miss Iris. All Winter, when
it is cold, she sleeps in her soft bed, made from the silk lining of the
bark. Then one day the sun shines warm and the robin sings to her and
wakes her. 'What,' says she, 'is it so soon Spring? I must get to work
right away at mine apple blossoms.'
"Then she stoops down for some sand and some dirt. In her hands she
moulds it--so--reaching out for some rain to keep it together. Then she
says one charm. With a forked stick she packs it into every little place
inside that apple tree and sprinkles some more of it over the outside.
"'Now,' says she, 'we must wait, for I have done mine work well. It is
for the sun and the wind and the rain to finish.' So the rain makes all
very wet, and the wind blows and the sun shines, and presently the sand
and dirt that she has put in is changed to sap that is so glad it runs
like one squirrel all over the inside of the tree and tries to sing like
one bird.
"'So,' says this young lady, 'it is as I thought.' Then she says one
more charm, and when the sun comes up in the morning, it sees that the
branches are all covered with buds and leaves. The young lady and the
moon work one little while at it in the evening, and the next morning,
there is--this!"
The Master buried his face in the fragrant blooms. "It is a most
wonderful sweetness," he went on. "It is wind and grass and sun, and the
souls of all the apple blossoms that are dead."
"Franz," called Fraeulein Fredrika, "you will bring them out to tea,
yes?"
As the entertainment progressed, Lynn's admiration of Iris increased.
She seemed equally at home in Miss Field's stately mansion and in the
tiny bird-house on the brink of a precipice, where everything appeared
to be made out of something else. She was in high spirits and kept them
all laughing. Yet, in spite of her merry chatter, there was an undertone
of tender wistfulness that set his heart to beating.
The Master, too, was at his best. Usually, he was reserved and quiet,
but to-night the barriers were down. He told them stories of his student
days in Germany, wonderful adventures by land and sea, and conjured up
glimpses of the kings and queens of the Old World. "Life," he sighed,
"is very strange. One begins within an hour's walk of the Imperial
Palace, where sometimes one may see the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, and one
ends--here!"
"Wherever one may be, that is the best place," said the Fraeulein. "The
dear God knows. Yet sometimes I, too, must think of mine Germany and
wish for it."
"Fredrika!" cried the Master, "are you not happy here?"
"Indeed, yes, Franz, always." Her harsh voice was softened and her
piercing eyes were misty. One saw that, however carefully hidden, there
was great love between these two.
Iris helped the Fraeulein with the dishes, in spite of her protests. "One
does not ask one's guests to help with the work," she said.
"But just suppose," answered Iris, laughing, "that one's guests have
washed dishes hundreds of times at home!"
In the parlour, meanwhile, the Master talked to Lynn. He told him of
great violinists he had heard and of famous old violins he had
seen--but there was never a word about the Cremona.
"Mine friend, the Doctor," said the Master, "do you perchance know him?"
"Yes," answered Lynn, "I have that pleasure. He's all right, isn't he?"
"So he thinks," returned the Master, missing the point of the phrase.
"In an argument, one can never convince him. He thinks it is for me to
go out on one grand tour and give many concerts and secure much fame,
but why should I go, I ask him, when I am happy here? So many people
know what should make one happy a thousand times better than the happy
one knows. Life," he said again, "is very strange."
It was a long time before he spoke again. "I have had mine fame," he
said. "I have played to great houses both here and abroad, and women
have thrown red roses at me and mine violin. There has been much in the
papers, and I have had many large sums, which, of course, I have always
given to the poor. One should use one's art to do good with and not to
become rich. I have mine house, mine clothes, all that is good for me to
eat, mine sister and mine--" he hesitated for an instant, and Lynn knew
he was thinking of the Cremona. "Mine violins," he concluded, "mine
little shop where I make them, and best of all, mine dreams."
Iris came back and Fraeulein Fredrika followed her. "If you will give me
all the little shells," she was saying, "I will stick them together with
glue and make mineself one little house to sit on the parlour table. It
will be most kind." Her voice was caressing and her face fairly shone
with joy.
"I will light the lamp," she went on. "It is dark here now." Suiting the
action to the word, she pulled down the lamp that hung by heavy chains
in the centre of the room, and the gilded potato-masher swung back and
forth violently.
"No, no, Fredrika," said the Master. "It is not a necessity to light the
lamp."
"Herr Irving," she began, "would you not like the lamp to see by?"
"Not at all," answered Lynn. "I like the twilight best."
"Come, Fraeulein," said Iris, "sit over here by me. Did I tell you how
you could make a little clothes-brush out of braided rope and a bit of
blue ribbon?"
"No," returned the Fraeulein, excitedly, "you did not. It will be most
kind if you will do it now."
The women talked in low tones and the others were silent without
listening. The street was in shadow, and here and there lanterns flashed
in the dark. Down in the valley, velvety night was laid over the river
and the willows that grew along its margin, but the last light lingered
on the blue hills above, and a single star had set its exquisite lamp to
gleaming against the afterglow.
The wings of darkness hovered over the little house, and yet no word was
spoken. It was an intimate hush, such as sometimes falls between lovers,
who have no need of speech. Lynn and Iris looked forward to the future,
with the limitless hope of Youth, while the others brooded over a past
which had brought each of them a generous measure of joy and pain.
The full moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the valley
with silver light. "Oh," cried Iris, "how glorious it is!"
"Yes," said the Master, "it is the light of dreams. All the ugliness is
hidden, as in life, when one can dream. Only the beauty is left. Wait,
I will play it to you."
He went downstairs for his violin and Lynn moved closer to Iris.
Fraeulein Fredrika retreated into the shadow at the farthest corner of
the room.
Presently the Master returned, snapping and tightening the strings. It
was not the Cremona, but the other. He sat down by the window and the
moonlight touched his face caressingly. He was grey with his fifty years
and more, but as he sat there, his massive head thrown back and his hair
silvered, he seemed very near to the Gates of Youth.
In a moment, he was lost to his surroundings. He tapped the bow on the
sill, as an orchestra leader taps for attention, straightened himself,
smiled, and began.
It was a rippling, laughing melody, played on muted strings, full of
unexpected harmonies, and quaintly phrased. In a moment, they caught the
witchery of it, and the meaning. It was Titania and her fairies,
suddenly transported half-way around the world.
Mystery and magic were in the theme. Moonbeams shimmered through it,
elves played here and there, and shining waters sang through Summer
silences. All at once there was a pause, then, sonorous, deep, and
splendid, came another harmony, which in impassioned beauty voiced the
ministry of pain.
As before, Lynn saw chiefly the technique. Never for a moment did he
forget the instrument. Iris was trembling, for she well knew those high
and lonely places of the spirit, within the borders of Gethsemane.
The Master put down the violin and sighed. "Come," faltered Iris, "it is
late and we must go."
He did not hear, and it was Fraeulein Fredrika who went to the door with
them. "Franz is thinking," she whispered. "He is often like that. He
will be most sorry when he learns that you have gone."
"This way," said Iris, when they reached the street. They went to the
brow of the cliff and looked once more across the shadowed valley to the
luminous ranges of the everlasting hills. She turned away at last,
thrilled to the depths of her soul. "Come," she whispered, "we must go
back."
They walked softly, as though they feared to disturb someone in the
little house, but there was no sound from within nor any light save at
the window, where the light of dreams streamed over the Master's face
and made it young.