Told in a French Garden August, 1914

IX

THE VI­OLIN­IST'S STO­RY

THE SOUL OF THE SONG

THE TALE OF A FI­ANCEE

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 Di­vorcee 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 An­gele?” asked the Di­vorcee. “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 cham­pe­tre_ told me what the en­ve­lope con­tained. He fell at Charleroi.”

“Poor An­gele,” 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 meme!_'--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 Di­vorcee, 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 aes­thet­ic 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.

As I played that melody over and over again, it puz­zled me more and more. I could find nowhere with­in my mem­ory any­thing that even re­mind­ed me of it. Yet I was vague­ly fa­mil­iar with it.

When evening came on I was more rest­less than ev­er. By nine o'clock I found it im­pos­si­ble to bear longer with my own com­pa­ny, and I start­ed out. I had no des­ti­na­tion. Some­thing im­pelled me to­ward the Opera House, though I cared lit­tle for opera as a rule, that is, opera as we have it in Amer­ica--fash­ion­able and Philis­tine.

I en­tered the au­di­to­ri­um--the opera was “Faust”--just in sea­son to hear the last half of the third act.

As the sen­su­ous pas­sion­ate mu­sic swelled in the sul­try air of the dark gar­den at Nurem­burg, I lis­tened, moved by it as I al­ways am--when I can­not see the over-​dressed, la­dy-​like Mar­guerite that goes a-​star­ring in Amer­ica. My eyes wan­dered rest­less­ly over the au­di­ence. Sud­den­ly there was a rush­ing, like the surg­ing of wa­ters, in my ears, which drowned the mu­sic, and I saw Ro­driguez sit­ting care­less­ly in the front of a stage box. His eyes were fixed on me, and I thought there was an ex­pres­sion of re­lief in them.

Shocked that the un­ex­pect­ed sight of the man should have such an ef­fect on me, I pulled my­self to­geth­er with an ef­fort. The sound of the wa­ters re­ced­ed, the mu­sic rushed back, leav­ing me amazed at a con­di­tion in my­self which should have ren­dered me so sus­cep­ti­ble, in some sub­con­scious way, to the un­doubt­ed mag­netism of the man whose vi­olin had so af­fect­ed me the night be­fore, and so haunt­ed me all day, and in re­gard to whose com­po­si­tion I had an ill-​de­fined, but in­sis­tent, the­ory which would in­trude in­to my mind.

In vain I turned my eyes to the stage. I could not for­get his pres­ence. Ev­ery few min­utes my glance, as if drawn by a mag­net, would turn in his di­rec­tion, and as of­ten as that hap­pened, whether he were lean­ing back to speak to some one hid­den by the cur­tain, or watch­ing the house, or lis­ten­ing in­tent­ly to the mu­sic, I nev­er failed to find that his eyes met mine.

I sat through the next act in this con­di­tion. Then I could stand it no longer. I felt that I might end by mak­ing my­self ob­jec­tion­able, and that, af­ter all, it was far wis­er to be safe at home, than sit­ting in the the­atre where I oc­cu­pied my­self in star­ing at but one per­son.

I made my way slow­ly up the aisle and in­to the foy­er, and had near­ly reached the out­er lob­by, when I sud­den­ly felt sure that he was near.

I looked up!

Yes, there he was, and he was look­ing me di­rect­ly in the face again. An odd smile came in­to his eyes. He nod­ded to me as he ap­proached, and, with a quaint shake of the head, said: “I just made a wa­ger with my­self. I bet that if I en­coun­tered you in the lob­by, with­out ac­tu­al­ly seek­ing you, and you saw me, I'd speak to you--and ask a fa­vor of you. I am go­ing to win that wa­ger.”

He did not seem to ex­pect me to an­swer him. He sim­ply turned be­side me, thrust his arm care­less­ly through mine, and moved with me to­ward the ex­it.

“Let us step out­side a mo­ment,” he said. It was easy to un­der­stand why. The hero of the night be­fore could not hope to pass un­not­ed.

He stepped in­to the street.

It was a moon­lit night. I re­mem­ber that dis­tinct­ly.

He light­ed his cigarette, and held his case to­ward me. I shook my head. I had no de­sire to smoke.

We walked a few steps to­geth­er in si­lence be­fore he said: “I am try­ing to frame a most un­usu­al re­quest so that it may not seem too fan­tas­tic to you. It is more dif­fi­cult than writ­ing a fugue. The truth is--I have got­ten my­self in­to a bit of a fix--and I want to guard against its turn­ing in­to some­thing worse than that. I need some man's as­sis­tance to ex­tri­cate my­self.”

I prob­ably looked alarmed. Those fore­bears of mine will in­trude when I am tak­en by sur­prise. He saw it, and said, quick­ly: “It is noth­ing that a man, will­ing to be of ser­vice to me, need balk at; noth­ing, in fact, that a chival­rous man would not be glad to do. You may not think very well of me af­ter­ward, but be sure you will nev­er re­gret the act. I was in sore need of a friend. There was none at hand--if such as I ev­er have friends. Sud­den­ly I saw you. I re­mem­bered your vi­olin as I heard it be­hind me last night--an Am­ati, I fan­cy?”

I nod­ded as­sent.

“A beau­ti­ful in­stru­ment. I may some day ask you to let me try it--you and I can nev­er be quite strangers af­ter to-​night.”

He paused, pound­ed the side-​walk with his stick, im­pa­tient­ly, as if the long pream­ble made him as ner­vous as it did me. Then, look­ing me in the face, he said rapid­ly: “This is it. When I leave the box, af­ter the next act, do you fol­low me. Stay by me, no mat­ter what hap­pens. Stick to me, even though I ask you to leave me, so long as there is any one with me. Do more--stay by me, un­til, in your room or mine, you and I sit down to­geth­er, and--well, I will ex­plain what must, un­til then, seem ei­ther mad or ridicu­lous. Is that clear?”

I as­sured him that it was.

“Agreed then,” he said.

By this time we were back at the door. The whole thing had not tak­en five min­utes. We re-​en­tered the the­atre, and walked hur­ried­ly through the lob­by to the foy­er. As we were about to sep­arate, he laid a hand on ei­ther of my shoul­ders, and with a whim­si­cal smile, said: “I'll dare swear I shall try to give you the slip.”--The smile died on his lips. It nev­er reached his eyes. “Don't let me do it. Af­ter the next act, then,” and, with a wave of his hand, he dis­ap­peared.

I thought I was ridicu­lous enough when he had gone, and I re­al­ized that I had promised to fol­low this man, I did not know where, I did not know with whom, I did not know why.

It was use­less for me to go back in­to the au­di­to­ri­um. I could not lis­ten to the mu­sic. In spite of my­self, I kept ap­proach­ing the en­trance op­po­site the box, and peer­ing through the glass, like a de­tec­tive. I knew I was afraid that he would keep his word and try to give me the slip. I nev­er asked my­self what dif­fer­ence it would make to me if he did. I sim­ply took up the strange un­ex­plained task he had giv­en me as if to me it were a mat­ter of life or death.

Even be­fore the cur­tain fell, I had hur­ried round the house and placed my­self with my back to the door, so that I could not miss him as he passed, and yet had no ap­pear­ance of watch­ing him. It was well that I did, for in an in­stant the door opened. He came out and passed me quick­ly, fol­lowed by a tall slen­der wom­an in a straight wrap that fell from her head to the ground, and the domi­no-​like hood which com­plete­ly con­cealed her face.

As he drew her hand through his arm, he looked back at me, over his shoul­der. His eyes met mine. They seemed to say, “Is it you, old True-​pen­ny?” But he mere­ly bent his head cour­te­ous­ly and with his lips said, “Come!” I felt sure that he shrugged his shoul­ders re­signed­ly, as he saw that I kept my word, and fol­lowed.

At the door he found his car­riage. He as­sist­ed his com­pan­ion in. Then in the gen­tlest man­ner he said in my ear, as he stood aside for me to en­ter, “In with you. My hon­or is saved, but re­pen­tance dogs its heels.”

To the la­dy he said, “This is the friend whom you were kind enough to per­mit me to ask for sup­per.”

She made no re­ply.

I un­cov­ered my head to salute her, mur­mur­ing some vague phrase of thanks, which was, I am sure, in­audi­ble. Then Ro­driguez fol­lowed, and took his place be­side me on the front seat.

As the door banged I could have sworn that the la­dy, whose face was con­cealed be­hind the falling lace of her hood, as if by a mask, spoke.

He thought so, too, for he leaned for­ward as if to catch the words. Ev­ident­ly we were mis­tak­en, for he re­ceived no re­sponse. He mur­mured an oath against the pave­ments and the noise, and turned a smil­ing face to me--and I? Why, I smiled back!

As we rat­tled over the pavings, through the light­ed streets, no one spoke. The la­dy leaned back in her cor­ner. Op­po­site her Ro­driguez hummed “Salve! dimo­ra” and I be­side him, sat strange­ly con­fused and in­ert, still as if in a dream.

I had not even not­ed the di­rec­tion we were tak­ing, un­til I found that we had stopped in front of a French restau­rant, one of the few Bo­hemi­an re­sorts the town boast­ed.

Ro­driguez leaped out, as­sist­ed the la­dy, and I fol­lowed.

Just as we reached the top of the stairs, as I was about to fol­low them in­to one of the small sup­per rooms, like a flash, as if I were sud­den­ly wak­ing from a dream in­to con­scious, with ex­act­ly the same sen­sa­tion I have ex­pe­ri­enced many and many a morn­ing when strug­gling back to life from sleep, I re­al­ized that the slen­der fig­ure be­fore me was as fa­mil­iar as my own hand.

As the door closed be­hind us, I called her by name--and my voice star­tled even my­self.

She threw back the hood of her cape and faced me.

Ro­driguez had heard, too. He wheeled quick­ly to­ward us, as near­ly bro­ken from his self-​con­trol as a man so sure of him­self could be.

Un­der the flash of our eyes the col­or surged up painful­ly in her pale face. There was much the same ex­pres­sion in our eyes, I fan­cy,--Ro­driguez's and mine--but I felt that it was at his face she gazed.

I have nev­er known how far it is giv­en to wom­an to pen­etrate the mys­ter­ies of hu­man na­ture, for she is gift­ed, it seems to me, with a dis­sim­ula­tion in which she wraps her­self, as with an im­pen­etra­ble veil of out­ward in­no­cence, and ig­no­rance, from our less acute per­cep­tion and rud­er knowl­edge.

There were speech­es enough that it would have be­come a man in my po­si­tion to make. I knew them all. But--I said noth­ing. Some in­stinct saved me; some vague fore-​knowl­edge made me feel--I knew not why--that there was re­al­ly noth­ing for me to say at that mo­ment.

For ful­ly a minute none of us moved.

Ro­driguez re­cov­ered him­self first. I can­not de­scribe the pe­cu­liar ex­pres­sion of his eyes as he slow­ly turned them from her face to mine. So bound up was he in him­self that I was con­fi­dent that he did not yet sus­pect more than that she and I had met be­fore. What was in her mind I dared not guess.

He com­pos­ed­ly crossed to her. He gen­tly un­fas­tened her heavy wrap, care­ful­ly lift­ed it from her shoul­ders. He pushed a high backed chair to­ward her, and, with a smile, forced her to sit--she did look dan­ger­ous­ly white. She sank in­to it, and weari­ly leaned her pret­ty head back, as if for sup­port, and I no­ticed that her slen­der hands, as they grasped ei­ther arm of the chair, trem­bled, in spite of the grip she took to steady her­self. I felt her whole body vi­brate, as a vi­olin vi­brates for a mo­ment af­ter the bow leaves the strings.

“It is a strange chance that you two should know each oth­er,” he said, “and very well, too, if I may judge from your man­ner of ad­dress­ing her?”

I moved to a place be­hind her chair, and laid my hand on it. “This la­dy is my af­fi­anced wife,” I replied.

He did not change col­or. For an in­stant not a mus­cle moved. He did not stir a step from his place be­fore the fire, where he stood, with his gaze fixed on her face. For one in­stant he turned his wide­ly opened eyes on me--brief as the glance was, I felt it was crit­ical. Then his lids quiv­ered and drooped com­plete­ly over his eyes, ab­so­lute­ly veil­ing the whole man, and, to my amaze­ment, he laughed aloud.

But even as he did so, he spread his hands quick­ly to­ward us as if to apol­ogize, and ghast­ly as the com­ment was, grotesque even, as it all seemed, I think we both un­der­stood. He hard­ly need­ed to say, “Par­don me,” as he quick­ly re­cov­ered his strong hold on him­self.

The next in­stant he was again stand­ing erect be­fore the fire, with his hands thrust deep in­to his pock­ets, and his voice was ab­so­lute­ly calm as he turned to­ward me and said, with a smile un­der his half low­ered heavy lids, “I promised you, when I asked you to ac­com­pa­ny me, that be­fore we slept to-​night I would ex­plain my sin­gu­lar re­quest. I hard­ly thought that I should have to do it, whether I would or not, un­der these cir­cum­stances. In­deed, it ap­pears that you have the right to de­mand of me the ex­pla­na­tion I so flip­pant­ly of­fered you an hour ago. I am bound to own that, had I dreamed that you knew this la­dy--that a re­la­tion so in­ti­mate ex­ist­ed be­tween you--I should sure­ly nev­er have done of my own will this which Fate has pre­sumed to do for me. What can I say to you two that will help or mend this--to you, my fel­low mu­si­cian, who were will­ing to stand my friend in need, with­out ques­tion; and to the wom­an you love, and to whom I owe an eter­nal debt--that we may have no doubts of one an­oth­er in the fu­ture? I can­not make ex­cus­es well, even if I have the right to. I on­ly hope we are all three so con­sti­tut­ed that we may be able to feel that for a lit­tle we have been out­side com­mon caus­es and com­mon re­sults, and that you may lis­ten to an ex­pla­na­tion which may seem strange, par­don me, and part from me with­out re­sent­ment, be­ing sure that I shall suf­fer, and yet be glad.”

The face against the high-​backed chair was very pale. She closed her eyes. His gaze was on her. He marked the change, I was sure. He thrust his hands still deep­er in­to his pock­ets, as if to brace him­self, and went on. "Last night her pure eyes looked in­to mine. I had seen her face be­fore me night af­ter night, nev­er dream­ing who she was. I had al­ways played to her, and it had seemed to me at times as if the mu­sic I made was in her face. I could see noth­ing else. I seemed to be look­ing through her am­ber eyes, down, down in­to her deep beau­ti­ful soul, and my soul reached out to­ward her, with a sud­den knowl­edge of what man­hood might have been had all wom­an­hood been pure; of what life might have been with one who could know no sin.

“It was on­ly her face that I saw, as I stood wait­ing the end of the ap­plause. I seemed to be gaz­ing be­tween her glo­ri­ous eyes, as to tell the truth, I had more than once gazed in my dreams in the past month. I had al­ready writ­ten the song that see­ing her face had sung in my heart. It was with an ir­re­sistible long­ing, an im­pulse stronger than my will, to say to her just what her face had said to me,--though she might nev­er know it was said to her--that I went back to the stage. Al­most be­fore I re­al­ized it, I was there. I felt the vi­brant soul of my vi­olin as I laid my cheek against it, and I saw the same spir­it trem­ble be­hind the eyes of the fair face above me, as one sees a re­flec­tion trem­ble un­der the wind rip­pled wa­ter. The first chord throbbed on the air in re­sponse to it. Then I played what she had un­con­scious­ly in­spired in me. It was in her eyes, where nev­er swerv­ing, im­mor­tal loy­al­ty shone, that I read the death­less theme. Out of her na­ture came the in­spi­ra­tion. To her be­longs the hon­or. I know--no one bet­ter, that as I played last night, I shall nev­er play again; just as I re­al­ize that _what_ I played last night my own na­ture could nev­er of it­self have cre­at­ed. It was she who spoke, it was not I. Let him who dares, try to ex­plain that mir­acle.”

She rose from her chair and moved to­ward him, and as she moved, she swayed piti­ful­ly.

He did not stir.

It was I who caught her as she stum­bled, and I held her close in my arms. Af­ter a mo­ment, she re­laxed a lit­tle, and her head drooped weari­ly on my shoul­der. He low­ered his lids, and I felt that ev­ery nerve in his well con­trolled body quiv­ered with re­sent­ment.

He mo­tioned to en­treat her to sit down again. She shook her head, and, when he went on, again, he for the first time ad­dressed him­self di­rect­ly to her. "It was chance that set you across my path last night--you and your fa­ther. I rec­og­nized him at once. I knew your moth­er well. I can re­mem­ber the day on which you were born, I was a lad then. Your moth­er was one of my idols. Why, child, I fid­dled for you in your cra­dle. At the mo­ment I re­al­ized who you were, you were so much a part of my mu­sic that you on­ly ap­pealed to me through that. But when I left you, I car­ried a con­scious­ness of you with me that was more tan­gi­ble. I had held your hand in mine. I feel it there still.

"I went di­rect­ly to my room, alone. I sat down im­me­di­ate­ly to tran­scribe as much of what I had played as pos­si­ble while it was fresh in my mind. As I wrote I was alone with you. But as the spir­it of the mu­sic was im­pris­oned, I knew that you were be­com­ing more and more a ma­te­ri­al pres­ence to me. When I slept, it was to dream of you again--but, oh, the dif­fer­ence!

"I should have been grate­ful to you for the in­spi­ra­tion that you had been to me--and I was! But it had served its pur­pose. They tell me I nev­er played like that be­fore. I feel I nev­er shall again. But the end of an emo­tion is nev­er in the spir­it with me.

"I start­ed out this af­ter­noon to find you, obliv­ious of the fact that I should have left town. I had the au­dac­ity to tell my­self that I should be a cad if I de­part­ed with­out thank­ing the sweet daugh­ter of your moth­er for her share in mak­ing me great. I had the pre­sump­tion to be­lieve in my­self. It seemed nat­ural enough to your good fa­ther that 'a whim­si­cal ge­nius,' as he called me, should be al­lowed the caprice of even tardi­ly look­ing up his boy­hood's ac­quain­tance. He re­ceived me nobly, was proud that you should see I re­mem­bered him--and sim­ply made no se­cret of it.

"Though I knew what you had seemed to me, I lit­tle re­al­ized that the child of true, fine mu­si­cal spir­its had a na­ture strung like my Strad--fine, clear, true, match­less, as well as in­spir­ing. I spent a beau­ti­ful af­ter­noon with you. I can­not bet­ter ex­plain than by say­ing that to me it was like such a day as I have some­times had with my vi­olin. I call them my holy-​days, and God knows I try to keep them holy,--though af­ter too many of them fol­low a St. Michael and the Drag­on tus­sle--and I mean no dis­cred­it to the Archangel, ei­ther.

"The hon­est old fa­ther, proud to trust his daugh­ter to me,--in his kind heart he al­ways con­sid­ered me a most ma­ligned man,--went off to the play and his Sat­ur­day night club. He told me that.

“We were alone to­geth­er. It was then that I be­gan to think that I could prob­ably play on her na­ture as I did on my vi­olin, and then, with a play­er's fren­zy, to re­al­ize that I had been do­ing it from the first; that we had vi­brat­ed in har­mo­ny like two ends of a chord. Then I saw no more the spir­it be­hind her eyes. I saw on­ly the beau­ti­ful face in which the col­or came and went, the bur­nished hair so full of gold­en lights, on which I longed to lay my hand--the sen­si­tive red lips--and the an­gel and the de­mon rose up with­in me, and looked one an­oth­er in the face, and I heard the one fling the truth at the oth­er, which even the dev­il no longer cared to de­ny--Ah, for­give me!--”

In his ego­ism of self-​anal­ysis and open con­fes­sion, I am sure he did not re­al­ize how far he was go­ing, un­til she buried her face in her hands.

Then he stepped across the room and stood be­fore me as she rest­ed her face in her hands against my breast.

“It was not es­pe­cial­ly clever--the last strug­gle against my­self. I had nev­er known such a wom­an be­fore. I sup­pose if I had, I should have tor­tured her to death to strike new chords out of her na­ture,--and wept at my work! I had not the courage to tear my­self abrupt­ly away. I sug­gest­ed an hour of the opera--I gave her the pub­lic as a pro­tec­tor--and they sang 'Faust.' It was then that, know­ing my­self so well, I looked out in­to the au­di­to­ri­um and saw you! It was Prov­idence that put you in my way. I thought it was ac­ci­dent. I am sure I need say no more?”

I shook my head.

He leaned over her a mo­ment. He gen­tly took her hands from her face. Her eye­lids trem­bled. For one brief mo­ment she opened her eyes to his.

“You have giv­en me one sweet day,” he mur­mured. “Some part of your soul has called its mu­sic out of mine. That off­spring of a mirac­ulous sym­pa­thy will live im­mor­tal when all else of our two lives is for­got­ten. Re­mem­ber to-​day as a dream--and me as a shad­ow there--” he stopped abrupt­ly. I felt her head fall for­ward. She had swooned.

To­geth­er we looked in­to the beau­ti­ful col­or­less face.

I loved mu­sic as I loved light. I was an artist my­self. A great mu­si­cian--and this man was one--was to me the great­est achieve­ment of Art and Liv­ing.

I did not refuse the hand he held out. I buried mine in it.

I did not smile nor mis­trust, nor mis­un­der­stand the tears in his eyes, nor de­spise him be­cause I knew they would soon enough be dry. I did not doubt his sin­cer­ity when he said, “I have nev­er done so bit­ter a thing as say 'good-​bye' to this--though I know but too well such are not for me.”

He bent over her, as if he would take her in his arms.

She was un­con­scious. I felt tempt­ed to put her there. I knew I loved her as he could nev­er love--yet I pitied him the more for that.

“Tell her,” he whis­pered, “tell her, when she shall have for­got­ten this--as I hope she will--that for this hour at least I loved her; that los­ing her I am li­able to love her long,--so we shall nev­er meet again. I shall nev­er cease to be grate­ful to the Prov­idence that threw you in my way--af­ter to-​night. To-​night I could curse it and my con­science with a right good will.” With an ef­fort he straight­ened him­self. “You can af­ford to for­give me,” he said, “for I--I en­vy you with all my heart.”--And he was gone.

I heard his voice as he spoke to the wait­er out­side. I lis­tened to his step as he de­scend­ed the stairs. He had passed out of our life for­ev­er.

That was years ago.

She has long been dead.

He was not to blame if the sun­shine that danced in mu­sic out of the eyes of the wom­an I loved nev­er quite came back again. We were, all the same, hap­py to­geth­er in our way.

He was not to blame if it was writ­ten in the big book of Fate that it should be his heart, and not mine, that should read the song she bore in her soul.

Some­thing must be sac­ri­ficed for Art. We sac­ri­ficed our first il­lu­sions--and the Song he read will sing on when even Ro­driguez is but a tra­di­tion.