Told in a French Garden — 12- Chapter Nine, Part 1

THE TALE OF A FIANCÉE

On Saturday most of the men made a run into Paris.

It had finally been decided as best that, if all went well, we should leave for Paris some time the next day.

There were steamer tickets to attend to.

There were certain valuables to be taken up to the Bank.

The Divorcée had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in order that we might start with as little luggage as possible, so both chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage, and orders to wait there.

The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of dismantling the house.

The unexpected end of our summer had come.

It was sad, but I imagine none of us were sorry, under the circumstances, to move on.

It was nearly dinner time when the cars came back, almost together, and we were surprised to see the Doctor going out to the servants' quarters instead of joining us as he usually did.

In fact, we did not see him until we went into the dining room for dinner.

As he came to the head of the table, he said: "My good people, we will serve ourselves as best we can with the cook's aid.

We have no waitress to-night.

But it is our last dinner.

A camp under marching orders cannot fuss over trifles."

"Where is Angéle?"

asked the Divorcée. "Is she ill?"

And she turned to the door.

"Come back!"

said the Doctor, sharply.

"You can't help her now.

Better leave her alone!"

As if by instinct, we all knew what had happened.

"Who brought the news?"

some one asked.

"They gave it to me at the _Mairie_ as I passed," replied the Doctor, "and the _garde champêtre_ told me what the envelope contained.

He fell at Charleroi."

"Poor Angéle," exclaimed the Trained Nurse.

"Are you sure I could not help her?"

"Sure," said the Doctor.

"She took it as a Frenchwoman should.

She snatched the baby from its cradle, and held it a moment close to her face.

Then she lifted it above her head in both hands, and said, almost without a choke in her throat, _'Vive la France, quand même!

_'--and dropped.

I put them on the bed together, she and the boy.

She was crying like a good one when I left her.

She's all right."

"Poor child--and that tiny baby!"

exclaimed the Divorcée, wiping her eyes.

"Fudge," said the Doctor.

"She is the widow of a hero, and the mother of the hero's son.

Considering what life is, that is to be one of the elect of Fate.

She'll go through life with a halo round her head, and, like most of the French women I have seen, she'll wear it like a crown.

It becomes us, in the same spirit, to partake of the food before us.

This life is a wonderful spectacle.

If you saw an episode like that in a drama, at the theatre, you would all cheer like mad."

We knew he was right.

But the Youngster could not help adding, "That's twice--two days running, that the Doctor has told a story out of his turn, and both times he outraged the consign, for both times it was a war story."

That seemed to break the ice.

We talked more or less war during dinner, but this time there were no disputes.

Still I think we were glad when the cook trotted in with the trays, and with our elbows on the table, we turned toward the Violinist, who leaned against the high back of his chair, and with his long white hands resting on the carved arms, and his eyes on the ceiling--an attitude that he did not change during the narrative, began: * * * * * It was in the early eighties that I returned from Germany to my native land, and settled myself and my violin in the city of my birth.

I was not rich as my countrymen judge wealth, but, in my own estimation, I was well to do.

I had enough to live without labor, and was, therefore, able to devote myself to my art without considering too closely the recompense.

In addition to that, I was still young.

I had more love for my chosen mistress--Music--than the Goddess had for me, for, while she accepted my worship with indulgence, she wasted fewer gifts on me than fell to the lot of many a less faithful follower.

Still, I was happy and content in my love for her, and only needed her to keep me so until, a year after my return, I met one woman, loved her, and begged her to share with my music, my heart, and its adoration.

That satisfied her, since, in her own love for the same art, she used to assure me that she possessed, by proxy, that other half of myself which I still dedicated to the Muse.

Perhaps it was the vibrant spirit of this woman which seemed musical to me, and which I so ardently loved, for she appeared to have a veritable violin soul.

Her face was often the medium through which I saw the spirit of the music I was playing, as it sang in gladness, sobbed in sadness, thrilled in passion along the strings of my Amati.

I knew that I never played so well as when her face was before me.

I

felt that if ever I approached my dreams in achievement, it would be her soul that inspired me.

So like was she, in my fancy, to a musical instrument, that I used to tell her, when the wind swept across her burnished hair, that the air was full of melody.

And when she looked especially ethereal--as she did at times--I would catch her in my arms, and bid her tell me, on peril of her life, what song was hidden in her heart, that I might teach it to my violin, and die great.

Yet, remarkable as it seems to me still, the Spirit of Music that surely dwelt within her, dwelt there a dumb prisoner.

It had no audible voice, though I was not alone in feeling its presence in her eyes, on her lips, in her spiritual charm.

She had a voice that was melody itself, yet she never sang.

I always fancied her hands were a musician's hands, yet she never played.

This was the more singular as her mother had been a great singer, and her father, while he had never risen above the desk of _chef d'orchestre_ in a local playhouse, was no mean musician.

Often, when the charm of her spirit was on me, I would pretend to weave a spell about her, and conjure the spirit that was imprisoned in the heart that was mine, to come forth from the shrine he was so impudently usurping.

Ah, those were the days of my youth!

We had been betrothed but a brief time when Rodriguez, for some seasons a European celebrity, made his first appearance in our city.

I had heard most of the great violinists of that time, had known some of them well, had played with many of them, as I did later with Rodriguez, but I had never chanced to see or hear him.

His fame had, however, preceded him.

The newspapers were full of him.

Faster even than the tales of his genius had travelled the tales of his follies--tales that out-Don-Juaned the famous rake of tradition.

However little credence one gives to such reports--mad stories of a scandalous nature--these repeated episodes of excesses, only tolerated in the conspicuous, do color one's expectations.

I suppose that, being young, I expected to see a man whose face would bear the brand of his errors as well as the stamp of his genius.

That was not Rodriguez's fate.

Whatever the temperamental struggle had been, he was "take him for all in all," the least disappointing famous man that my experience had ever shown me.

He was more virile than handsome, and no more æsthetic to look at than he was ascetic.

At that time he was on the sunny side of forty, and not yet at the zenith of his great career.

His face was fine, manly, and sympathetic.

His brow was broad, his eyes deep-set and widely spaced, but very heavy lidded.

The mouth and chin were, I must own, too delicate and sensitive for the rest of the face.

His dark hair, young as he was, had streaks of grey.

In bearing he was so erect, so sufficient, that he seemed taller than he was.

If he had the vanity which so often goes with his kind of temperament, it was most cleverly concealed.

Safe in the dignified consciousness of his unquestioned gifts, secure in his achievements, he had a winning gentleness, and an engaging manner difficult to resist.

But for a singular magnetic light in his eyes, which belied the calm of his bearing, when he chanced to raise the heavy lids full on one--they usually drooped a little--but for a sensitive quiver along the too full lips, as if they still trembled from the caress of genius--the royal accolade of greatness--he might have looked to me, as he did to many, more the diplomat than the artist.

It would be useless for me to analyse his command of his instrument.

I could not.

It would be superfluous for me to recount his triumphs.

They are too recent to have been forgotten.

Both tasks have, moreover, been done better than I could do either.

This I can do, however, bear witness to the glowing wings of hope, of longing, of aspiration which his singing violin lent to hearts oppressed by commonplace every-day cares, to the moments of courage, of re-awakened endeavor which he inspired in his fellowmen, to the marvellous magnetism of his playing which seemed for the moment to restore to a soul-weary world its illusions, and to strike off the fetters of despondency which bind mortality to earth.

It was not alone the musically intelligent who felt this, for his playing had a universal appeal.

Thorough musicians marvelled at and envied him his mastery of the details of his art, but it seemed to me that those who knew least of its technique were equally open to his influence.

I don't presume to explain this.

I merely record it.

There were those who analysed the fact, and explained it on the ground of animal magnetism.

For myself, I only know that, as the magic music which Hunold Singref played in the streets of Hamelin, whispered in the ears of little children words of promise, of happiness, of comfort that none others could hear, so, to the emotional heart, Rodriguez's violin spoke a special message.

The man who sets the faces of the throng upward, and lights their eyes with the magic fire of hope, has surely not lived in vain, whatever personal offerings he may have made on the altar of his genius to keep alive the eternal spark.

It cannot be denied that Art has fulfilled some part of its mission on earth, if, but for one hour, thousands, marshalled by its music, as the children of Israel by the pillar of flame, have looked above the dull atmosphere where pain and loss and sorrow are, to feel in themselves that divine longing which is ecstasy, that soaring of the spirit which, in casting off fear and rising above doubt, can cry out in joy, "Oh, blessed spark of Hope--this soul which can so rise above sorrow, so mount above the body, must be immortal.

This which can so cast off care cannot die!"

All the great acts of life, and all the great arts, are purely emotional.

I know that modern cults deny this, and work to see everything gauged by reason.

But thus far musicians and painters, preachers and orators all approach their goal by the road to the emotions--if they hope to win the big world.

Patriotism, fidelity--love of country, like love of woman--are emotions, and it would puzzle logicians, I am afraid, to be sure that these emotions, at times sublime, might not be as sensual as some of Rodriguez's critics found his music.

* * * * * The series of concerts he gave was very exhausting to me, owing to the novelty of some of his programs, and the constant rehearsals.

The final concert found me quite worn out.

During the latter part of the evening I had been too weary to even raise my eyes to the balcony in front of me, where, from my position among the first violins, I could see the fair face of my beloved.

The evening had been a great triumph, and when it was all over the audience was quite mad with enthusiasm.

It was one of Rodriguez's inviolable rules to play a program exactly as announced, and never to add to it.

In the month he had been in town, the public had learned how impossible it was to tempt him away from his rule.

But Americans are persistent!

Again and again he had mounted the steps to the platform, and calmly bowed his thanks, while long drawn cheers surged through the noise of hand-clapping, as strains on the brass buoy up the melody.

I lost count of the number of times he had ascended and descended the little flight of steps which led, behind a screen, from the artist's room to the stage, when, having turned in my seat to watch him, as he came up and bowed, and walked off again, I saw him, as he stood behind the screen, gazing directly over our heads, suddenly raise his violin to his ear and slowly draw the bow across the strings.

Almost before we could realize what had happened, he crossed the stage, stepped to his stand, and drew his bow downward.

The applause died sharply on the crest of a crescendo, and left the air trembling.

There was a sudden hush.

A few sank back in their seats, but most of them remained standing where they were, just as we behind him were suddenly fixed in our positions.

I have since heard a deal of argument as to the use and power of music as the voice of thought.

I was not then--and I am not now--of that school which holds music to be a medium to transmit anything but musical ideas.

So, of the effect of Rodriguez's music on my mind, or the possibility that, for some occult reason, I was for the moment _en rapport_ with him, as after events forced me to believe, I shall enter into no discussion.

I am merely going to record, to the best of my ability, my thoughts, as I remember them.

I no more presume to explain why they came to me, than I do to analyse my trust in immortality.

As he drew his bow downward, as the first chord filled my ears, everything else faded away.

There was the merest prelude, and then the theme, which appeared, disappeared and re-appeared again and again to be woven about every emotion, at once developed and dominated me.

I seemed at first to hear its melody in the fresh morning air, where it soared upward above the gentle breezes, mingling in harmony with the matins of the birds and the softly rustling trees.

Hopeful as youth, careless as the wind, it sang in gladness and in trust.

Then I heard the same melody throb under the noonday glow of summer.

Its tone was broadened and sweetened, but still brave and pure, when all else in Nature, save its clear voice, seemed sensuous.

I saw gardens in a riot of color; felt love at its passionate consummation, ere the light seemed to fade slowly toward the sunset hour.

The world was still pulsing with color, but the grey of twilight was slowly enwrapping it.

Then the simple melody soared above the day's peacefullest hour, firm in promise on the hushed air.

In the mystery of night which followed, when black clouds snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the silence had something of terror even for the brave, that same steadfast loving hopeful theme moved on, consoling as trust in immortality.

Through youth to maturity, and on to age, it sang with the same reiterant, subduing, infallible loyalty--the crystallized melody of all that is spiritual in love, in adoration, in passion.

As it died away into the distance, as if its spirit, barely audible, were translated to the far off heavenly host, I strained my hearing to catch that "last fine sound" that passed so gently one "could not be quite sure where it and silence met," and for the first and last time in my life I had known all that a violin can do.

For a moment the hush was wonderful.

Rodriguez stood like a statue.

His bow still touched the strings.

Yet there was no sound that one could hear, though his own fine head was still bent, as though he, too, listened.

He gently dropped his bow--he smiled--we all came back to earth together.

Then such a scene followed as beggars description.

But he passed hurriedly out of sight, and no amount of tumult could induce him to even show himself again.

Slowly, reluctantly, the audience dispersed, still murmuring.

The musicians picked up their traps, and wildly or soberly according to their temperaments, began to dispute.

It was everywhere the same topic--the unknown work that Rodriguez had so marvellously played.

As for me--as he played, I seemed to be in the very heart of the melody, singing it too, as his violin sang it.

As the song soared upward, my heart was filled with longing, with pain, with joy, with regret.

As it gradually died into silence a mist seemed to pass from before my eyes, and I became suddenly conscious of the sweet face of my beloved, growing more and more distinct, until, as the last note died away, I was fully conscious that the music had passed between us, like a cloud, to obscure my sight utterly, and to recede as slowly, leaving her face before me.

I knew afterward, that, to all appearances, I had been gazing directly into her face all the time.

Through it all I had a vague sense that what he played was not new to me.

It seemed like something I had long known and tried to say, but could not.

In a daze, I left the stage.

Silently I put my violin in its case, pulled on my great coat, and turned up the collar about my face.

I was sure I was haggard, and I did not wish her to remark it.

I knew that I should find her waiting in the corridor with her father.

Just as I passed out of the artists' room, I was surprised to see Rodriguez standing there in conversation with her, and her father.

He was, however, just leaving them, and did not see me.

I knew that her father had known him in Vienna, when the now great violinist was a mere lad, and I had heard that he forgot no one, so the sight gave me a merely momentary surprise.

As I joined her, and we stepped out into the night together, I could not help wondering if Rodriguez had noticed her sensitive violin face, as I tried to get a look into her eyes.

I remembered afterward that, so wrapped was I in my own emotions, and so sure was I of her sympathy, that I neither noted nor asked how the music had affected her.

It was bitterly cold.

We walked briskly, and parted at the door.

As I look back, I realize how much an egoist an emotional man can be, and in good faith be unconscious of it.

The day after the concert was Saturday--a day on which I rarely saw her, as it was my habit to spend all Sunday with her.

I was always somewhat an epicure in my moral nature.

I liked to pet my inclinations, as I have seen good livers whet their appetites, by self-denial.

All day I was restless and depressed.

At the piano, with my violin in my hand, it was still that same haunting melody that bewitched my fingers.

Whatever I essayed led me, unconsciously, back to the same theme; and whenever that _motif_ fell from my fingers her face appeared before my eyes so distinctly that I would have to dash my hand across them to wipe away the impression that it was the real face that was before me.

Afterward, when I was calmer, I knew that this was nothing singular since, whether I had ever reflected on the fact or not, she was rarely from my mind.