The First Violin

“He has never cared for anything since Sigmund left us,” I continued.

“Sigmund – was that the dear little boy?”

“You say very truly.”

“Tell me about him. Was not his father very fond of him?”

“Fond! I never saw a man idolize his child so much. It was only need – the hardest need that made them part.”

“How – need? You do not mean poverty?” said she, somewhat awe-struck.

“Oh, no! Moral necessity. I do not know the reason. I have never asked. But I know it was like a death-blow.”

“Ah!” said she, and with a sudden movement removed her mask, as if she felt it stifling her, and looked me in the face with her beautiful clear eyes.

“Who could oblige him to part with his own child?” she asked.

“That I do not know, mein Fräulein. What I do know is that some shadow darkens my friend’s life and imbitters it – that he not only can not do what he wishes, but is forced to do what he hates – and that parting was one of the things.”

She looked at me with eagerness for some moments; then said, quickly:

“I can not help being interested in all this, but I fancy I ought not to listen to it, for – for – I don’t think he would like it. He – he – I believe he dislikes me, and perhaps you had better say no more.”

“Dislikes you!” I echoed. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! he does,” she repeated, with a faint smile, which struggled for a moment with a look of pain, and then was extinguished. “I certainly was once very rude to him, but I should not have thought he was an ungenerous man – should you?”

“He is not ungenerous; the very reverse; he is too generous.”

“It does not matter, I suppose,” said she, repressing some emotion. “It can make no difference, but it pains me to be so misunderstood and so behaved to by one who was at first so kind to me – for he was very kind.”

“Mein Fräulein,” said I, eager, though puzzled, “I can not explain it; it is as great a mystery to me as to you. I know nothing of his past – nothing of what he has been or done; nothing of who he is – only of one thing I am sure – that he is not what he seems to be. He may be called Eugen Courvoisier, or he may call himself Eugen Courvoisier; he was once known by some name in a very different world to that he lives in now. I know nothing about that, but I know this – that I believe in him. I have lived more than three years with him; he is true and honorable; fantastically, chivalrously honorable” (her eyes were downcast and her cheeks burning). “He never did anything false or dishonest – ”

A slight, low, sneering laugh at my right hand caused me to look up. That figure in a white domino with a black mask, and a crimson rosette on the breast, stood leaning up against the foot of the organ, but other figures were near; the laugh might have come from one of them; it might have nothing to do with us or our remarks. I went on in a vehement and eager tone:

“He is what we Germans call a ganzer kerl– thorough in all – out and out good. Nothing will ever make me believe otherwise. Perhaps the mystery will never be cleared up. It doesn’t matter to me. It will make no difference in my opinion of the only man I love.”

A pause. Miss Wedderburn was looking at me; her eyes were full of tears; her face strangely moved. Yes – she loved him. It stood confessed in the very strength of the effort she made to be calm and composed. As she opened her lips to speak, that domino that I mentioned glided from her place and stooping down between us, whispered or murmured:

“You are a fool for your pains. Believe no one – least of all those who look most worthy of belief. He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgrace that he hides himself. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five years ago; you will hear what he has to say about it, and how brave and honorable he looks.”

Swift as fire the words were said, and rapidly as the same she had raised herself and disappeared. We were left gazing at each other. Miss Wedderburn’s face was blanched – she stared at me with large dilated eyes, and at last in a low voice of anguish and apprehension said:

“Oh, what does it mean?”

Her voice recalled me to myself.

“It may mean what it likes,” said I, calmly. “As I said, it makes no difference to me. I do not and will not believe that he ever did anything dishonorable.”

“Do you not?” said she, tremulously. “But – but – Anna Sartorius does know something of him.”

“Who is Anna Sartorius?”

“Why, that domino who spoke to us just now. But I forgot. You will not know her. She wanted long ago to tell me about him, and I would not let her, so she said I might learn for myself, and should never leave off until I knew the lesson by heart. I think she has kept her word,” she added, with a heartsick sigh.

“You surely would not believe her if she said the same thing fifty times over,” said I, not very reasonably, certainly.

“I do not know,” she replied, hesitatingly. “It is very difficult to know.”

“Well, I would not. If the whole world accused him I would believe nothing except from his own lips.”

“I wish I knew all about Anna Sartorius,” said she, slowly, and she looked as if seeking back in her memory to remember some dream. I stood beside her; the motley crowd ebbed and flowed beneath us, but the whisper we had heard had changed everything; and yet, no – to me not changed, but only darkened things.

In the meantime it had been growing later. Our conversation, with its frequent pauses, had taken a longer time than we had supposed. The crowd was thinning. Some of the women were going.

“I wonder where my sister is!” observed Miss Wedderburn, rather wearily. Her face was pale, and her delicate head drooped as if it were overweighed and pulled down by the superabundance of her beautiful chestnut hair, which came rippling and waving over her shoulders. A white satin petticoat, stiff with gold embroidery; a long trailing blue mantle of heavy brocade, fastened on the shoulders with golden clasps; a golden circlet in the gold of her hair; such was the dress, and right royally she became it. She looked a vision of loveliness. I wondered if she would ever act Elsa in reality; she would be assuredly the loveliest representative of that fair and weak-minded heroine who ever trod the boards. Supposing it ever came to pass that she acted Elsa to some one else’s Lohengrin, would she think of this night? Would she remember the great orchestra – and me, and the lights, and the people – our words – a whisper? A pause.

“But where can Adelaide be?” she said, at last. “I have not seen them since they left us.”

“They are there,” said I, surveying from my vantage-ground the thinning ranks. “They are coming up here too. And there is the other gentleman, Graf von Telramund, following them.”

They drew up to the foot of the orchestra, and then Mr. Arkwright came up to seek us.

“Miss Wedderburn, Lady Le Marchant is tired and thinks it is time to be going.”

“So am I tired,” she replied. I stepped back, but before she went away she turned to me, holding out her hand:

“Good-night, Herr Helfen. I, too, will not believe without proof.”

We shook hands, and she went away.

The lamp still burning, the room cold, the stove extinct. Eugen seated motionless near it.

“Eugen, art thou asleep?”

“I asleep, my dear boy! Well, how was it?”

“Eugen, I wish you had been there.”

“Why?” He roused himself with an effort and looked at me. His brow was clouded, his eyes too.

“Because you would have enjoyed it. I did. I saw Miss Wedderburn, and spoke to her. She looked lovely.”

“In that case it would have been odd indeed if you had not enjoyed yourself.”

“You are inexplicable.”

“It is bed-time,” he remarked, rising and speaking, as I thought, coldly.

We both retired. As for the whisper, frankly and honestly, I did not give it another thought.

CHAPTER XXIX

MAY’S STORYSchumann.

Following Arkwright, I joined Adelaide and von Francius at the foot of the orchestra. She had sent word that she was tired. Looking at her, I thought indeed she must be very tired, so white, so sad she looked.

“Adelaide,” I expostulated, “why did you remain so long?”

“Oh, I did not know it was so late. Come!”

We made our way out of the hall through the veranda to the entrance. Lady Le Merchant’s carriage, it seemed, was ready and waiting. It was a pouring night. The thaw had begun. The steady downpour promised a cheerful ending to the carnival doings of the Monday and Tuesday; all but a few homeless or persevering wretches had been driven away. We drove away too. I noticed that the “good-night” between Adelaide and von Francius was of the most laconical character. They barely spoke, did not shake hands, and he turned and went to seek his cab before we had all got into the carriage.

Adelaide uttered not a word during our drive home, and I, leaning back, shut my eyes and lived the evening over again. Eugen’s friend had laughed the insidious whisper to scorn. I could not deal so summarily with it; nor could I drive the words of it out of my head. They set themselves to the tune of the waltz, and rang in my ears:

“He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgrace that he is hiding. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five years ago.”

The carriage stopped. A sleepy servant let us in. Adelaide, as we went upstairs, drew me into her dressing-room.

“A moment, May. Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“H’m – well – yes and no. And you, Adelaide?”

“I never enjoy myself now,” she replied, very gently. “I am getting used to that, I think.”

She clasped her jeweled hands and stood by the lamp, whose calm light lighted her calm face, showing it wasted and unutterably sad.

Something – a terror, a shrinking as from a strong menacing hand – shook me.

“Are you ill, Adelaide?” I cried.

“No. Good-night, dear May. Schlaf’ wohl, as they say here.”

To my unbounded astonishment, she leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss; then, still holding my hand, asked: “Do you still say your prayers, May?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you say?”

“Oh! the same that I always used to say; they are better than any I can invent.”

“Yes. I never do say mine now. I rather think I am afraid to begin again.”

“Good-night, Adelaide,” I said, inaudibly; and she loosed my hand.

At the door I turned. She was still standing by the lamp; still her face wore the same strange, subdued look. With a heart oppressed by new uneasiness, I left her.

It must have been not till toward dawn that I fell into a sleep, heavy, but not quiet – filled with fantastic dreams, most of which vanished as soon as they had passed my mind. But one remained. To this day it is as vivid before me, as if I had actually lived through it.

Meseemed again to be at the Grafenbergerdahl, again to be skating, again rescued – and by Eugen Courvoisier. But suddenly the scene changed; from a smooth sheet of ice, across which the wind blew nippingly, and above which the stars twinkled frostily, there was a huge waste of water which raged, while a tempest howled around – the clear moon was veiled, all was darkness and chaos. He saved me, not by skating with me to the shore, but by clinging with me to some floating wood until we drove upon a bank and landed. But scarcely had we set foot upon the ground, than all was changed again. I was alone, seated upon a bench in the Hofgarten, on a spring afternoon. It was May; the chestnuts and acacias were in full bloom, and the latter made the air heavy with their fragrance. The nightingales sung richly, and I sat looking, from beneath the shade of a great tree, upon the fleeting Rhine, which glided by almost past my feet. It seemed to me that I had been sad – so sad as never before. A deep weight appeared to have been just removed from my heart, and yet so heavy had it been that I could not at once recover from its pressure; and even then, in the sunshine, and feeling that I had no single cause for care or grief, I was unhappy, with a reflex mournfulness.

And as I sat thus, it seemed that some one came and sat beside me without speaking, and I did not turn to look at him; but ever as I sat there and felt that he was beside me, the sadness lifted from my heart, until it grew so full of joy that tears rose to my eyes. Then he who was beside me placed his hand upon mine, and I looked at him. It was Eugen Courvoisier. His face and his eyes were full of sadness; but I knew that he loved me, though he said but one word, “Forgive!” to which I answered, “Can you forgive?” But I knew that I alluded to something much deeper than that silly little episode of having cut him at the theater. He bowed his head; and then I thought I began to weep, covering my face with my hands; but they were tears of exquisite joy, and the peace at my heart was the most entire I had ever felt. And he loosened my hands, and drew me to him and kissed me, saying “My love!” And as I felt – yes, actually felt – the pressure of his lips upon mine, and felt the spring shining upon me, and heard the very echo of the twitter of the birds, saw the light fall upon the water, and smelled the scent of the acacias, and saw the Lotus-blume as she —

“Duftet und weinet und zittertVor Liebe und Liebesweh,”

I awoke, and confronted a gray February morning, felt a raw chilliness in the air, heard a cold, pitiless rain driven against the window; knew that my head ached, my heart harmonized therewith; that I was awake, not in a dream; that there had been no spring morning, no acacias, no nightingales; above all, no love – remembered last night, and roused to the consciousness of another day, the necessity of waking up and living on.

Nor could I rest or sleep. I rose and contemplated through the window the driving rain and the soaking street, the sorrowful naked trees, the plain of the parade ground, which looked a mere waste of mud and half-melted ice; the long plain line of the Caserne itself – a cheering prospect truly!

When I went down-stairs I found Sir Peter, in heavy traveling overcoat, standing in the hall; a carriage stood at the door; his servant was putting in his master’s luggage and rugs. I paused in astonishment. Sir Peter looked at me and smiled with the dubious benevolence which he was in the habit of extending to me.

“I am very sorry to be obliged to quit your charming society, Miss Wedderburn, but business calls me imperatively to England; and, at least, I am sure that my wife can not be unhappy with such a companion as her sister.”

“You are going to England?”

“I am going to England. I have been called so hastily that I can make no arrangements for Adelaide to accompany me, and indeed it would not be at all pleasant for her, as I am only going on business; but I hope to return for her and bring her home in a few weeks. I am leaving Arkwright with you. He will see that you have all you want.”

Sir Peter was smiling, ever smiling, with the smile which was my horror.

“A brilliant ball, last night, was it not?” he added, extending his hand to me, in farewell, and looking at me intently with eyes that fascinated and repelled me at once.

“Very, but – but – you were not there?”

“Was I not? I have a strong impression that I was. Ask my lady if she thinks I was there. And now good-bye, and au revoir!”

He loosened my hand, descended the steps, entered the carriage, and was driven away. His departure ought to have raised a great weight from my mind, but it did not; it impressed me with a sense of coming disaster.

Adelaide breakfasted in her room. When I had finished I went to her. Her behavior puzzled me. She seemed elated, excited, at the absence of Sir Peter, and yet, suddenly turning to me, she exclaimed, eagerly:

“Oh, May! I wish I had been going to England, too! I wish I could leave this place, and never see it again.”

“Was Sir Peter at the ball, Adelaide?” I asked.

She turned suddenly pale; her lip trembled; her eye wavered, as she said in a low, uneasy voice:

“I believe he was – yes; in domino.”

“What a sneaking thing to do!” I remarked, candidly. “He had told us particularly that he was not coming.”

“That very statement should have put us on our guard,” she remarked.

“On our guard? Against what?” I asked, unsuspectingly.

“Oh, nothing – nothing! I wonder when he will return! I would give a world to be in England!” she said, with a heartsick sigh; and I, feeling very much bewildered, left her.

In the afternoon, despite wind and weather, I sallied forth, and took my way to my old lodgings in the Wehrhahn. Crossing a square leading to the street I was going to, I met Anna Sartorius. She bowed, looking at me mockingly. I returned her salutation, and remembered last night again with painful distinctness. The air seemed full of mysteries and uncertainties; they clung about my mind like cobwebs, and I could not get rid of their soft, stifling influence.

Having arrived at my lodgings, I mounted the stairs. Frau Lutzler met me.

“Na, na, Fräulein! You do not patronize me much now. My rooms are becoming too small for you, I reckon.”

“Indeed, Frau Lutzler, I wish I had never been in any larger ones,” I answered her, earnestly.

“So! Well, ’tis true you look thin and worn – not as well as you used to. And were you – but I heard you were, so where’s the use of telling lies about it – at the Maskenball last night? And how did you like it?”

“Oh, it was all very new to me. I never was at one before.”

“Nicht? Then you must have been astonished. They say there was a Mephisto so good he would have deceived the devil himself. And you, Fräulein – I heard that you looked very beautiful.”

“So! It must have been a mistake.”

“Doch nicht! I have always maintained that at certain times you were far from bad-looking, and dressed and got up for the stage, would be absolutely handsome. Nearly any one can be that – if you are not too near the foot-lights, that is, and don’t go behind the scenes.”

With which neat slaying of a particular compliment by a general one, she released me, and let me go on my way upstairs.

Here I had some books and some music. But the room was cold; the books failed to interest me, and the music did not go – the piano was like me – out of tune. And yet I felt the need of some musical expression of the mood that was upon me. I bethought myself of the Tonhalle, next door, almost, and that in the rittersaal it would be quiet and undisturbed, as the ball that night was not to be held there, but in one of the large rooms of the Caserne.

Without pausing to think a second time of the plan, I left the house and went to the Tonhalle, only a few steps away. In consequence of the rain and bad weather almost every trace of the carnival had disappeared. I found the Tonhalle deserted save by a bar-maid at the restauration. I asked her if the rittersaal were open, and she said yes. I passed on. As I drew near the door I heard music; the piano was already being played. Could it be von Francius who was there? I did not think so. The touch was not his – neither so practiced, so brilliant, nor so sure.

Satisfied, after listening a moment, that it was not he, I resolved to go in and pass through the room. If it were any one whom I could send away I would do so, if not, I could go away again myself.

I entered. The room was somewhat dark, but I went in and had almost come to the piano before I recognized the player – Courvoisier. Overcome with vexation and confusion at the contretemps, I paused a moment, undecided whether to turn back and go out again. In any case I resolved not to remain in the room. He was seated with his back to me, and still continued to play. Some music was on the desk of the piano before him.

I might turn back without being observed. I would do so. Hardly, though – a mirror hung directly before the piano, and I now saw that while he continued to play, he was quietly looking at me, and that his keen eyes – that hawk’s glance which I knew so well – must have recognized me. That decided me. I would not turn back. It would be a silly, senseless proceeding, and would look much more invidious than my remaining. I walked up to the piano, and he turned, still playing.

“Guten Tag, mein Fräulein.”

I merely bowed, and began to search through a pile of songs and music upon the piano. I would at any rate take some away with me to give some color to my proceedings. Meanwhile he played on.

I selected a song, not in the least knowing what it was, and rolling it up, was turning away.

“Are you busy, Miss Wedderburn?”

“N – no.”

“Would it be asking too much of you to play the pianoforte accompaniment?”

“I will try,” said I, speaking briefly, and slowly drawing off my gloves.

“If it is disagreeable to you, don’t do it,” said he, pausing.

“Not in the very least,” said I, avoiding looking at him.

He opened the music. It was one of Jensen’s “Wanderbilder” for piano and violin – the “Kreuz am Wege.”

“I have only tried it once before,” I remarked, “and I am a dreadful bungler.”

“Bitte sehr!” said he, smiling, arranging his own music on one of the stands and adding, “Now I am ready.”

I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow the music. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness, from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me.

“Das Kreuz am Wege” turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over.

“Suppose we try it again,” he suggested, and we did so. I found my fingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to the piercing beauty of his notes.

“That is dismal,” said he.

“It is a dismal subject, is it not?”

“Suggestive, at least. ‘The Cross by the Wayside.’ Well, I have a mind for something more cheerful. Did you leave the ball early last night?”

“No; not very early.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was all new to me – very interesting – but I don’t think I quite enjoyed it.”

“Ah, you should see the balls at Florence, or Venice, or Vienna!”

He smiled as he leaned back, as if thinking over past scenes.

“Yes,” said I, dubiously, “I don’t think I care much for such things, though it is interesting to watch the little drama going on around.”

“And to act in it,” I also thought, remembering Anna Sartorius and her whisper, and I looked at him. “Not honest, not honorable. Hiding from shame and disgrace.”

I looked at him and did not believe it. For the moment the torturing idea left me. I was free from it and at peace.

“Were you going to practice?” he asked. “I fear I disturb you.”

“Oh, no! It does not matter in the least. I shall not practice now.”

“I want to try some other things,” said he, “and Friedhelm’s and my piano was not loud enough for me, nor was there sufficient space between our walls for the sounds of a symphony. Do you not know the mood?”

“Yes.”

“But I am afraid to ask you to accompany me.”

“Why?”

“You seem unwilling.”

“I am not: but I should have supposed that my unwillingness – if I had been unwilling – would have been an inducement to you to ask me.”

“Herrgott! Why?”

“Since you took a vow to be disagreeable to me, and to make me hate you.”

A slight flush passed rapidly over his face, as he paused for a moment and bit his lips.

“Mein Fräulein– that night I was in bitterness of spirit – I hardly knew what I was saying – ”

“I will accompany you,” I interrupted him, my heart beating. “Only how can I begin unless you play, or tell me what you want to play?”

“True,” said he, laughing, and yet not moving from his place beside the piano, upon which he had leaned his elbow, and across which he now looked at me with the self-same kindly, genial glance as that he had cast upon me across the little table at the Köln restaurant. And yet not the self-same glance, but another, which I would not have exchanged for that first one.

If he would but begin to play I felt that I should not mind so much; but when he sat there and looked at me and half smiled, without beginning anything practical, I felt the situation at least trying.

He raised his eyes as the door opened at the other end of the saal.