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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30562-8.txt b/30562-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e09e319 --- /dev/null +++ b/30562-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4662 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Unfinished Portraits, by Jennette Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Unfinished Portraits + Stories of Musicians and Artists + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: November 29, 2009 [EBook #30562] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +UNFINISHED PORTRAITS + + + + +BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + KATE WETHERILL + A PILLAR OF SALT + THE SON OF A FIDDLER + UNCLE WILLIAM + SIMEON TETLOW'S SHADOW + HAPPY ISLAND + MR. ACHILLES + THE TASTE OF APPLES + THE WOMAN IN THE ALCOVE + AUNT JANE + THE IBSEN SECRET + THE SYMPHONY PLAY + + + + +[Illustration: _The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed._ + Page 253] + + + + + UNFINISHED PORTRAITS + + STORIES OF MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS + + + _BY_ + + _JENNETTE LEE_ + + + _Schubert_ _Titian_ + _Chopin_ _Giorgione_ + _Bach_ _Leonardo_ + _Albrecht Dürer_ + + + _NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS_ + 1916 + + + + + _Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons + Published September, 1916_ + + + + + TO + + GERALD STANLEY LEE + + AND + + "THE GREAT ROAD THAT LEADS + FROM THE SEEN TO THE UNSEEN" + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + _There Was in Florence a Lady_ 1 + + _Thumbs and Fugues_ 29 + + _A Window of Music_ 79 + + _Frederic Chopin--A Record_ 135 + + _The Man With the Glove_ 151 + + _The Lost Monogram_ 207 + + + + +THERE WAS IN FLORENCE A LADY + + + + +I + + +The soft wind of an Italian spring stirred among the leaves outside. The +windows of the studio, left open to the morning air, were carefully +shaded. The scent of mulberry blossoms drifted in. The chair on the +model-stand, adjusted to catch the light, was screened from the glare; +and the light falling on the rich drapery flung across its back brought +out a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped flowers near by, and dark +gleams of old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty; but the two +men in the studio were facing it, as if a presence were still there. + +The painter, sketching idly on the edge of his drawing-board, leaned +back to survey the child's head that developed under his pencil. "She +will not come this morning, then?" he asked almost indifferently. + +The older man shook his head. "She said not. She may change her mind." + +The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing in the face of the +other, and he devoted himself anew to the child's head. "It does not +matter," he said. "I can work on the background--if I feel like working +at all," he added, after a moment's pause. + +The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pair of long +riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glanced toward the easel +standing in front of the painter, a little to the left. "It is barbarous +that you have had to waste so much time!" he broke out. "How long is +it? Two--no, three years last Christmas time since you began. And there +it stands." The figure on the easel, erect, tranquil, in the old chair, +seemed to half shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinished +face. He looked at it severely. The severity changed to something else. +"And it is so perfect--damnably perfect," he said irritably. + +The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement so slight +might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. "You are off for the +day?" he asked, glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a table by the +door. + +"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far as Pistoia. Going to see the new +altarpiece." He took up the hat and whip. He waited, fingering them +indecisively. "She seems to me more fickle than ever, this last month or +two." + +"I see that she is restless." The painter spoke in a low tone, half +hesitating. "I have wondered whether--I had hoped that the Bambino"--he +touched the figure lightly with his foot--"might not be needed." + +The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell. "No, +no such good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only caprice." + +The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appeared in the opening. +"Castino wishes me to say that the musicians wait," said the youth. + +The painter rose and came toward him, a smile of pleasure on his face. +"Tell them that there will be no sitting to-day, Salai," he said, laying +his hand, half in greeting, half in caress, on the youth's shoulder. + +"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and withdrew. + +The painter turned again to the older man. "It was a happy thought of +yours, Zano--the music. She delights in it. I almost caught, one day +last week, while they were playing, that curve about the lips." + +They stood for a moment in silence, looking toward the portrait. The +memory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker across the shaded light. + +"Well, I am off." The man held out his hand. + +The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in his supple +fingers and placed it to his lips. "A safe journey to you, Signor," he +said, in playful formality. + +"And a safe return, to find our Lady Lisa in better temper," laughed the +other. The laugh passed behind the draperies. + +The artist remained standing, his eyes resting absently on the rich +colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friend had +disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He had the look of a man +absorbed in a problem, who has come upon an unexpected complication. + +When the chess-board is a Florentine palace, and the pieces are +fifteenth-century human beings, such complications are likely to occur. +The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that she was not carved +of wood or ivory. But for three years the situation had remained the +same--the husband unobservant, the lady capricious and wilful. She had +shown the artist more kindness than he cared to recall. That was months +ago. Of late he had found scant favor in her sight.... It was better so. + +He crossed to the easel, and stood looking down at it. The quiet figure +on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride and dissatisfaction. He gazed +at it bitterly. Three years--but an eternal woman. Some day he should +catch the secret of her smile and fix it there. The world would not +forget her--or him. He should not go down to posterity as the builder of +a canal! The great picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of +fading. The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay--no +one to pay for the casting. But this picture----For months--with its +rippling light of under sea, its soft dreamy background, and in the +foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished but the Child upon +her arm, the smile of light in her eyes. + +The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband's, to paint +her as Madonna. She had refused to touch the Bambino--sometimes +petulantly, sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny figure lay always on the +studio floor, dusty and disarranged. The artist picked it up. It was an +absurd little wooden face in the lace cap. He straightened the velvet +mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand +and placed the tiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly +against the arm. + +A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneeling in front of +the Bambino. + +"I see that you have supplied my place, Sir Painter," said a mocking +voice. + +He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stood there, +smiling, scornful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy stuff, a gold +thimble-cap on her finger. "It would not make a bad picture," she said +tranquilly, "you and the Bambino." + +His face lighted up. "You have come!" He hastened toward her with +outstretched hand. + +With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes, +I dared not trust you. You might paint in the Bambino face instead of +mine, by mistake." + +She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. The Bambino +slipped meekly through the arm to the floor. + +"Zano told me"--he began. + +"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he would never go. I +really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm." She glanced about +the shaded room. "You manage it well," she said approvingly. "It is by +far the coolest place in the palace." + +"You will be going to the mountains soon?" He saw that she was talking +lightly to cover herself, and fell in with her mood. He watched her as +he arranged the easel and prepared his colors. Once he stopped and +sketched rapidly for a minute on the small drawing-board. + +She looked inquiry. + +"Only an eyebrow," he explained. + +She smiled serenely. "You should make a collection of those eyebrows. +They must mount into the hundreds by this time. You could label them +'Characters of the Lady Lisa.'" + +"The Souls of Lady Lisa." + +The lady turned her head aside. "Your distinctions are too subtle," she +said. Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting disgracefully on its wooden +head. "Poor little figurine," she murmured, reaching a slender hand to +draw it up. She straightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to +her lap, and lay there. Her hands were idle, her eyes looking far into +space. + +The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. "Sit still," he said, +almost harshly. + +She gave a quick, startled look. She glanced at the rigid little figure. +She raised it for a minute. Her face grew inscrutable. Would she laugh +or cry? He worked with hasty, snatched glances. Such a moment would not +come again. A flitting crash startled him from the canvas. He looked up. +The Bambino lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, scattered with +fragments of a rare Venetian glass. She sat erect and imperious, looking +with scorn at the wreck. Two great tears welled. They overflowed. The +floods pressed behind them. She dropped her face in her hands. Before he +could reach her she had darted from the chair. The mask of scorn was +gone. She fled from him, from herself, blindly, stopping only when the +wall of the studio intervened. She stood with her face buried in the +drapery, her shoulders wrenched with sobs. + +He approached her. He waited. The Bambino lay with its wooden face +staring at the ceiling. It was a crisis for them all. The next move +would determine everything. He must not risk too much, again. The +picture--art--hung on her sobs. Lover--artist? He paused a second too +long. + +She turned toward him slowly, serenely. Her glance fell across him, +level and tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay in smiling drops on +her face. The softened scorn played across it. "Shall we finish the +sitting?" she asked, in a conventional voice. + +He took up his brush uncertainly. She seated herself, gathering up the +scattered work. For a few moments she sewed rapidly. Then the soft +fabric fell to her lap. She sat looking before her, unconscious, except +that her glance seemed to rest now and then on the fallen figure in its +fragments of glass. + +For two hours he worked feverishly, painting with swiftest skill and +power. At times he caught his breath at the revelation in the face. He +was too alert to be human. The artist forgot the woman. Faithfully, line +by line, he laid bare her heart. She sat unmoved. When at last, from +sheer weariness, the brush dropped from his hand, she stepped from the +model-stand, and stood at his side. She looked at the canvas +attentively. The inscrutable look of the painted face seemed but a faint +reflex of the living one. + +"You have succeeded well," she said at last. "We will omit the Bambino." + +She moved slowly, graciously, toward the door, gathering the fragile +sewing as she went. He started toward her--suddenly conscious of her +power--a man again. A parting of the draperies arrested them. It was +Salai, his face agitated, looking from the lady to the painter, +inarticulate. + +"The Signor"--he gasped--"his horse--they bring him--dead." + +She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai. +Await your master's commands in the hall below." + +She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. "I trust that you +will make all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, in removing from the +palace. The apartments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. They will +come to honor the dead." + +He stood for a moment stupefied, aghast at her control of practical, +feminine detail; then moved toward her. "Lisa----" + +She motioned toward the easel. "Payment for the picture will be sent you +soon." + +"The picture goes with me. It is not finished." + +"It is well." She bowed mockingly. The little door swung noiselessly +behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. It was looking sideways +at the fallen Bambino amid the shattered fragments on the floor. + + + + +II + + +It was the French monarch. He fluttered restlessly about the studio, +urbane, enthusiastic. He paused to finger some ingenious toy, to praise +some drawing or bit of sunlit color that caught his fancy. The painter, +smiling at the frank enthusiasm, followed leisurely from room to room. +The wandering Milanese villa was a treasure house. Bits of marble and +clay, curious mechanical contrivances, winged creatures, bats and +creeping things mingled with the canvases. Color and line ran riot on +the walls. A few finished pieces had been placed on easels, in +convenient light, for the royal inspection. Each of these, in turn, the +volatile monarch had exalted. He had declared that everything in the +villa, including the gifted owner, must return with him to France. + +"That is the place for men like you!" he exclaimed, standing before a +small, exquisitely finished Madonna. "What do these Milanese know of +art? Or the Florentines, for that matter? Your 'Last Supper'--I saw it +last week. It is a blur. Would that the sainted Louis might have taken +it bodily, stone by stone, to our France, as he longed to do. You will +see; the mere copy has more honor with us than the original here. Come +with us," he added persuasively, laying his hand on the painter's shabby +sleeve. + +The painter looked down from his height on the royal suitor. "You do me +too much honor, sire. I am an old man." + +"You are Leonardo da Vinci," said the other stoutly, "the painter of +these pictures. I shall carry them all away, and you will have to +follow," laughed the monarch. "I will not leave one." He rummaged gayly +in the unfinished débris, bringing out with each turn some new theme of +delight. + +The painter stood by, waiting, alert, a trifle uneasy, it might seem. +"And now, sire, shall we see the view from the little western turret?" + +"One moment. Ah, what have we here?" He turned the canvas to the light. +The figure against the quaint landscape looked out with level, smiling +glance. He fell upon his knees before it. "Ah, marvellous, marvellous!" +he murmured in naïve delight. He remained long before it, absorbed, +forgetful. At last he rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an +easel. "Is she yet alive?" he demanded, turning to the painter. + +"She lives in Florence, sire." + +"And her name?" + +"Signora Lisa della Gioconda." + +"Her husband? It matters not." + +"Dead these ten years." + +"And children?" + +"A boy. Born shortly after the husband's death," he added, after a +slight pause. "Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at +sunset." + +"Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original--We shall +see--we shall see." + +"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished." + +"Unfinished?" He stared at it anew. "Impossible. It is perfect." + +"There was to be a child." + +"Ah!" The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes. The portrait +returned the royal look in kind. He broke into a light laugh. "You did +well to omit the child," he said. "Come, we will see the famous sunset +now." He turned to the regal figure on the easel. "Adieu, Mona Lisa. I +come for you again." He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered +out. The mocking, sidelong glance followed him. + + + + +III + + +The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French +window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line +of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the +hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the +room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for +sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture--a woman seated in a +rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life. + +The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A +figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow. +It waited. + +"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter. + +Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire. + +"What does he say of us to-day?" + +The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always +croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, +his face in the shadow still. + +The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile +has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco." + +The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped +a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull +silvery glimmer over it. + +"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's. +I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not +been lonely. Friends are faithful"--he pressed the youth's warm hand. +"His Majesty?"--the voice ended with a question. + +"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how +bright it grows." + +The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise +physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?" + +"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes----" + +"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will +be few bequests. My pictures--they are mine no longer. Should a painter +barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They +are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. +He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could +not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles. +He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking +long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be +the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on +the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said +softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He +gave you back to me. You will be his--his and his children's. I have no +child----At least.... Ah, well--Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona +will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has +rested on my work. Crumbling--fading--nothing finished. I planned so +much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished. +My manuscripts--do with them what you will. I could not even write like +other men--this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling +across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they +fluttered from his fingers. "A man is poor who has few wants. Then I +have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty +name." + +Silence fell between them. + +"There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is +rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her--this +ring--" He slipped it from his finger--a heavy stone, deep green, with +translucent lights. "It was my father's crest. He gave it to my +mother--not his wife--a woman--faithful. She put it on my finger when +she died--a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ... she +has a son.... Tell her...." The voice fell hushed. + +The young man waited, with bowed head. He looked up. He started quickly, +and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded the hands across the quiet +breast. He passed swiftly from the silent chamber, down to the +courtyard, out on the King's highway, mounted and fleet. + +The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gay chanson. His +retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi saluted and drew rein. +He spoke a word in the monarch's ear. The two men stood with uncovered +heads. They looked toward the western windows. The gay cavalcade halted +in the glow of light. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed +in the crimson flood. Within the room, above the gleaming coals, a woman +of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze upon an old man's face. + + + + +THUMBS AND FUGUES + + + + +I + + +"Ready, father--ready!" shouted the small boy. He was standing on the +top step of a flight of stairs leading to the organ-loft of the +Hofchapel, peering in. His round, stolid face and short, square legs +gave no hint of the excitement that piped in his shrill voice. + +The man at the organ looked leisurely around, nodding his big head and +smiling. "Ja, ja, S'bastian--ja," he said placidly. His fingers played +slowly on. + +The boy mounted the steps to the organ and rubbed his cheek softly +against the coat sleeve that reached out to the keys. The man smiled +again a big, floating smile, and his hands came to rest. + +The boy looked up wistfully. "They'll all get there before we do," he +said quickly. "Come!" + +The man looked down absently and kindly. "Nein, S'bastian." He patted +the round head beside him. "There is no need that we should hurry." + +They passed out of the chapel, across the courtyard and into the open +road. For half an hour they trudged on in silence, their broad backs +swinging from side to side in the morning light. Across the man's back +was slung a large violin, in its bag; and across the back of the boy +hung a violin like that of the father, only shorter and fatter and +squarer, and on his head was a huge woollen cap. He took it off and +wiped the perspiration from his white forehead. + +The man looked down at him once more and halted. "Now, but we will rest +here," he said gently. He removed the violin-bag carefully from his back +and threw himself on the ground and took from his pocket a great pipe. + +With a little sigh the boy sat down beside him. + +The man nodded good-naturedly. "Ja, that is right." He blew a puff of +smoke toward the morning clouds; "the Bachs do not hurry, my child--no +more does the sun." + +The boy smiled proudly. He looked up toward the ball of fire sailing +above them and a change came over his face. "We might miss the choral," +he said wistfully. "They won't wait, will they?" + +The big man shook his head. "We shall not be late. There is my clock." +He nodded toward the golden sun. "And I have yet another here," he +added, placing a comfortable hand on his big stomach. + +The boy laughed softly and lay quiet. + +The man opened his lips and blew a wreath of smoke. + +"There will be more than a hundred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you must +play what I have taught you--not too slow and not too fast." He looked +down at the boy's fat fingers. "Play like a true Bach and no other," he +added. + +The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Christoph be there?" he asked after a pause. + +"Ja." + +"And Uncle Heinrich?" + +"Ja, ja!" + +The boy gave a quick sigh of contentment. + +His father was looking at him shrewdly. "But it is not Uncle Heinrich +that will be making a player of you, and it is not Uncle Christoph. It +is only Johann Sebastian Bach that can make himself a player," he said +sternly. + +"Yes, father," replied the boy absently. His eyes were following the +clouds. + +The man blew great puffs of smoke toward them. "It is more than a +hundred and twenty years ago that we came from Hungary," he said +proudly. + +The boy nestled toward him. "Tell me about it." He had heard the story +many times. + +"Ja, ja," said the man musingly.... "He was my great-grandfather, that +man--Veit Bach--and your great-great-grandfather." + +The boy nodded. + +"And he was a miller----" + +He dropped into silence, and a little brook that ran over the stones +near by babbled as it went. + +The boy raised his eyes. "And he had a lute," he prompted softly. + +"Ja, he had a lute--and while the mill-wheel turned, he played the +lute--sweet, true notes and tunes he played--in that old mill." + +The boy smiled contentedly. + +"And now we be a hundred Bachs. We make music for all Germany. Come!" He +sprang to his feet. "We will go to the festival, the great Bach +festival. You, my little son, shall play like a true Bach." + +As they walked along the road he hummed contentedly to himself, speaking +now and then a word to the boy. "What makes one Bach great, makes all. +Remember, my child, Reinken is great--but he is only one; and Bohm and +Buxtehude, Pachelbel. But we are many--all Bachs--all great." He hummed +gayly a few bars of the choral and stopped, listening. + +The boy turned his face back over the road. "They are coming," he said +softly. + +"Ja, they are coming." + +The next moment a heavy cart came in sight. It was laden to the brim +with Bachs and music; some laughing and some singing and some +playing--on fiddles or flutes or horns--beaming with broad faces. + +The man caught up Sebastian by the arm and jumped on to the tail-board +of the cart. And thus--enveloped in a cloud of dust, surrounded by the +laughter of fun-loving men and youths--the boy came into Erfurt, to the +great festival of all the Bachs. + + + + +II + + +"Sh-h! It is Heinrich! Listen to him--to Heinrich!" There were nods and +smiles and soft thudding of mugs, and turning of broad faces toward the +other end of the enclosure, as a small figure mounted the platform. + +He was a tiny man, unlike the others; but he carried himself with a +gentle pomposity, and he faced the gathering with a proud gesture, +holding up his hand to enjoin silence. After a few muttering rumbles +they subsided. + +Sebastian, sitting between his father and a fat Bach, gulped with joy. +It was the great Heinrich--who composed chorals and fugues and gavottes +and--hush! Could it be that he was rebuking the Bachs--the great +Bachs!... Sebastian's ears cracked with the strain. He looked +helplessly at his father, who sat smiling into his empty beer-mug, and +at the fat Bach on the other side, who was gaping with open mouth at the +great Heinrich. + +Sebastian looked back to the platform. + +Heinrich's finger was uplifted at them sternly.... "It was Reinken who +said it. He of the Katherinenkirche has said it, in open festival, that +there is not a Bach in Germany that can play as he can play. Do you hear +that!" The little man stamped impatiently with his foot on the platform. +"He has called us flutists and lutists and 'cellists--" He stopped and +held up a small instrument that he carried in his hand--"Do you know +what this is?" + +A response of grunts and cheers came from the crowd. + +Sebastian stretched his neck to see. It was a kind of viol, small and +battered and torn. Worn ribbons fluttered from the handle. + +The small man on the platform lifted it reverently to his chin. He ran +his fingers lightly along the broken strings. "You know the man who +played it," he said significantly, "old Veit Bach--" Cheers broke from +the crowd. He stopped them sternly. "Do you think if he were alive--if +Veit Bach were alive, would Reinken, of Hamburg, dare challenge him in +open festival?" + +Cries of "Nein, nein!" and "Ja, ja!" came back from the benches. + +"Ja, ja! Nein, nein!" snarled back the little man. "You know that he +would not. He had only this--" He held up the lute again. "Only this and +his mill. But he made the greatest music of his time. While you--thirty +of you this day at the best organs in Germany.... And Reinken defies +you.... Reinken!" His lighted eye ran along the crowd. "Before the next +festival, shall there be one who will meet him?" There was no response. +The Bachs looked into their beer-mugs. The great Heinrich swept them +with his eagle glance. "Is there not one," he went on slowly, "who dares +promise, in the presence of the Bachs that before Reinken dies he will +meet him and outplay him?" + +The Bachs were silent. They knew Reinken. + +Sebastian, wedged between his father and the fat Bach, gulped mightily. +He struggled to get to his feet. But a hand at his coat-tails held him +fast. He looked up imploringly into his father's face--but the hand at +his coat-tails restrained him. "I will promise," he whispered, "I want +to promise." + +"Ja, ja, little son," whispered the father; and he and the fat Bach +exchanged smiles across the round head. + +Heinrich's glance swept the crowd once more.... "You will not promise? +Then let me tell you--" He raised his small hand impressively. + +"There shall come of the Bachs one so great that all others shall fade. +He only shall be known as Bach--he and his sons; and before him the name +of Reinken shall be as dust!" With a hiss upon the last word, he threw +open his arms. "Come!" he said, "take your instrument and play." + +Then fell upon the assembly a series of squeaks and gruntings and +tunings and twinges and groans and wails such as was never heard outside +a Bach festival. And little Sebastian, tugging at his violin, tuned and +squeaked and grunted with the rest, oblivious to the taps that fell on +his small head from surrounding bows. And when at last the tuning was +done and there burst forth the wonderful new melody of the choral, +Sebastian's heart went dizzy with the joy of it. And Uncle Heinrich on +the platform, strutting proudly back and forth, conducting the +choral--his own choral--forgot his anger and forgot Reinken, and forgot +everything except the Bachs playing there before him--playing as only +the Bachs, the united Bachs, could play--in all Germany or in all the +world. + + + + +III + + +The two boys had come to a turn in the road, and stood looking back over +the way they had come. The younger of the two looked up wistfully to the +cherry-blossomed trees overhead. "It is hot, Sebastian!--Let us rest." + +With a smile the other boy threw himself on the grass. The large, flat +book that he carried under his arm fell to the ground beside him, and +his hand stole out and touched it. He had a wide, quiet face, with blue +eyes and a short nose, and lips that smiled dreamily to themselves. As +he lay looking up into the white blossoms that swayed and waited against +the clear blue of the sky, the lips curved in gentle content. + +His companion, who had thrown himself on the cool grass beside him, +watched him admiringly. His glance shifted and rested on the book that +lay on the grass. "What is it?--What is it, Sebastian?" he asked +timidly. He put out an inquisitive finger toward the book. + +Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let be," he said. + +The boy flushed. "I was not going to touch it." + +The other smiled, with his slow, generous eyes fixed on the boy's face. +"Thou art a good boy, Erdman!" ... "It is only thy fingers that itch to +know things." He patted them gently, where they lay on the grass beside +him. + +Erdman was still looking at the book. "Was it your brother's?" he asked +in a half whisper. + +"Christoph's?" Sebastian shook his head. "No, it is mine--my own." + +The soft wind was among the blossoms overhead--they fell in petals, one +by one, upon the quiet figures. + +"Want to know 'bout it?" asked Sebastian, half turning to meet his +companion's eye. + +The boy nodded. + +"It's mine. I copied it, every note--six months it took me--from +Christoph's book." + +"Did he let you?" + +Sebastian shook his head, a grim, sweet smile curving the big mouth. +"Let me?--Christoph!" + +The boy crept nearer to him. "How did you do it?" + +"I stole it--carried it up to my room while the others were asleep--and +did it by the moon." + +"The moon?" + +The boy nodded, laughing. "Didst never hear of the moon, brave boy!" + +Erdman smiled pettishly. "There isn't a moon--always," he said, after a +moment. + +"And that also is true," quoth the boy gravely. "But some time, late or +early, one gets a glimpse of her--if one lies awake to see," he added +softly. + +The other glanced again at the book. "Let me look at it," he pleaded. + +Sebastian smiled and reached over a hand to the book. "Don't touch. I'll +show it thee." He untied the strings and spread it on the ground, +throwing himself in front of it and resting his chin in his hands. +"Come," he said, "I'll show it thee." + +Erdman threw off his heavy cap and bent toward the book, with a little +gesture of wonder. "I heard about Christoph's book--a good many times," +he said softly.... "I didn't ever think I'd see it." He reached out his +hand and touched the open page. + +"Nobody ever saw it," said Sebastian absently. He was humming to +himself. "Listen to this!" he said eagerly. He hummed a few bars. +"That's Buxtehude's--isn't it great!" His face went tumpty-tumpty with +the notes, and the blue eyes shone. "But this is the one I like +best--listen!" He turned over the pages rapidly. "Here it is. This is +Reinken's. 'By the waters of Babylon, by the waters, by the waters of +Babylon.'" He hummed the tune below his breath--and then louder and +fuller.... The clear, sweet soprano of the notes died away softly. "Some +day I shall play it," said Sebastian lingeringly. "Some day. See--here +is the place for the harps! And here are the great horns. Listen!" His +voice droned away at the bass and ran into the swift high notes of the +treble. "Some day I shall play it," he repeated wistfully. + +Erdman's slow gaze was following the page. "I can't read so fast," he +said enviously. + +Sebastian smiled back. "I know it by heart--almost. When the moon was +behind the clouds I waited. I sang them over and over." + +"Very softly," said Erdman, as if seeing the picture of the boy and the +darkened room. + +"Very softly," assented Sebastian, "so that no one should hear. And now +I have them all!" He spoke exultingly. "And next month I shall see +Reinken.... I shall hear him play!" + +The other stared at him. "But Reinken is at Hamburg," he said at last. + +"And that, too, is so," said Sebastian smiling. + +"And we go to Lüneburg----" + +"And we go to Lüneburg!" repeated the boy, with a mocking lilt in his +voice. "And Lüneburg is twenty miles from Hamburg. Hadst thought of +that!" He laughed exultingly. + +The other shook his head. "I don't know what you mean," he said. + +Sebastian was fastening the big violin in place on his back. He looked +up under smiling brows, as he bent to draw the last strap. Then he +touched his sturdy legs with his hand and laughed. "I mean that these +are the horses to carry me to Hamburg and back many times. I shall hear +the great Reinken play!--And I, too, shall play!" he added proudly. + +"Do you never doubt, Sebastian?" asked the other thoughtfully, as they +moved on. + +"Doubt?" + +"Whether you will be a great musician?... Sometimes I see myself going +back--" He paused as if ashamed to have said so much. + +Sebastian shook his head. His blue eyes were following the clouds in the +spring day. "Sometimes I doubt whether I am among the elect," he said +slowly. "But never that I am to be a musician." His full lips puckered +dreamily, and his golden head nodded, keeping slow time. "By the +waters--" he broke out into singing. "Is it not wunderschön!" The blue +eyes turned with a smile. "It is wunderschön! Ach--wunderschön! Is it +not, Erdman?" He seemed to awake and laid his hand affectionately on the +boy's shoulder. + +The other nodded. "Yes, it is schön," he said wistfully. + +"Come, I will teach it to thee!" + +And the notes of Reinken's choral, "An den Wasserflüssen Babylon," +floated with a clear, fresh sound on the spring morning air, two hundred +years ago, and more, as two charity pupils walked along the road to +Lüneburg. + + + + +IV + + +A tall man with keen eyes and a round stomach stood in the shadow of the +Johanneskirche, lost in thought and humming to himself. Now and then he +took off his glasses and rubbed them vigorously, and put them on again +to peer absently down the street. + +A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue uniform of the Michaelsschule, +rounded the corner, puffing heavily. + +"Ach, Kerlman!" The tall man started forward with a stride. "You are +late." + +The other nodded imperturbably. + +"Ja, I am late. Those boys--I cannot make to hurry." He spoke as if +assigning sufficient reason and wiped his brow. + +A twinkle came into the keen eyes. "And one of them you have lost +to-day," he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle toward the heavy +church that rose behind them. + +The other looked quickly around. + +"That S'bastian--was he here?" he demanded. + +"In there," replied the tall man, smiling. "No, no!" he laid his hand on +his companion's arm as he started forward. "Let be--let be!... We must +help him--that boy. You have not heard him play my organ. Wait!" He held +up his hand.... Music was stealing from the gloomy shadows of the +church. + +"Come in," said the master. He pushed open a low door and they entered +the great church. Far up in the loft, struck by a shaft of light from a +gable in the roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in sound. His face was +bent to the keys as his hands hovered and paused over them and drew +forth the strangely sweet sounds that filled the great building. + +The two musicians below stood looking up, their big heads nodding +time.... Suddenly they paused and looked at each other with questioning +glance. The music was quickening and broadening with a clear, glad reach +of sound, and underneath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that bound the +notes together and vibrated through them. + +"How was he doing that?" whispered the small man excitedly. "You have +taught him that?" + +The other shook his head. + +"Come, we will see." + +Together they tiptoed through the dark church, softly--up to the +organ-loft and peered in. The boy, oblivious to sight and sound, played +on. + +Kerlman leaned far forward, craning his neck. He drew back, a look of +stupefaction in his face. He held up his large thumb and looked at it +soberly. + +"What is it?" whispered the other. + +"You see, Johannes Bohm?" He shook the fat thumb in his companion's +face. "He does it with that!" + +The master peered forward, incredulous. Slowly he crept up behind the +boy, his eyes fastened on the moving hands. His shadow fell on the keys +and the boy looked up. His face lighted with a smile. + +"Go on," said the master sternly. His eyes still watched the hands. +Slowly his big fingers reached over and grasped the thumb as it pressed +lightly on a key. "Who told you that?" he demanded. + +The boy looked down at it, puzzled. Then his face grew a little ashamed +and doubtful. "It is wrong, I know," he admitted. "Yes, it is wrong." + +"Who taught you?" + +"Nay, no one would teach it. I just happened--one day. It makes it so +easy." + +"Yes, I see." The master's voice was curt. + +"I will never do it again," said the boy humbly. + +"No--you might play it for me once--just once, for me," said the master. + +The boy's hands ran lovingly to the keys. They crept along the maze of +sound and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. Shyly the small thumb +darted out and found its key, and filled the great church with the +tremulous, haunting call of note answering note. + +The master bending over the keys wiped his brow and looked at the boy +proudly, with a little wonder in his face. "Good.... Ach--but good, +good!" he murmured softly. + +The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. "May I use +it--sometimes?" he asked, doubting. + +Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. "You may use it." He laughed again. +"All the world will use it!" he said, patting him on the back. "It is a +great discovery. Play more." + +The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master +slipped away. "Come down," he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk +filled the doorway. "Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry +this day." + +Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other +solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their +sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on +the table and regarded it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he said. + +Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling. + +The fat man raised his thumb from the table and twiddled it in the air. +It fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, half impatient, half +laughing. "How is one to do it--such fool tricks! Ja, ja!" + +The keen eyes watching him had a proud look. "You know what he will +be--that boy," he said exultingly. "He will be a great musician!" + +"He will be a great bother," grumbled Kerlman. "First," he checked off +the vices on his fingers--"first, he comes to us three weeks late--three +weeks late--because his brother promises, and takes it back and waits to +die--Bah!" He took a sip of beer and laid out another fat finger. +"Second, he sings two octaves at the same time--two octaves! Did one +ever hear such nonsense! Third, he loses his voice, his beautiful voice, +and sings no more at all." He shook his head heavily. "Fourth, he is +running away to Hamburg to listen--always to Hamburg, to listen to +Reinken, and coming back to be forgiven. Ja, ja! Seven times I have +forgiven him. I think he is making ready now to go once more!" He glared +at his companion. + +Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask you for that to-day," he said, +smiling. + +"Ja! ja--I have thought so." He looked sadly at the four short fingers +resting on the table. "And fifth--fifth--now what is that fifth? Ach, it +is that! That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That crawling, snivelling, +stiff-necked one!" He brought it down with a thump on the table. "To +make me all my days ashamed!" He held up the thumb and shook it +scornfully. + +High up in the Johanneskirche, in front of the big organ, the boy was +playing--with head and hands and heart and feet and thumb--swaying to +the music, lifting it from the great organ till it pealed forth, a +mighty sound, and, breaking from the gloomy church, floated on the still +air.... In the garden across the way, above their mugs, two old, +white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled in the sun. + + + + +V + + +The Katherinenkirche was dark, and very still--except for a faint noise +that came from a far corner of the upper left-hand gallery. The old +verger, moving about in felt slippers below, paused now and then, and +looked up as the sound grew louder or died away. It was like a mouse +nibbling--and yet it was not a mouse. + +The verger lighted a taper and prepared to ascend the stairs. + +He heaved a sigh as he climbed the steep step, throwing the candle rays +ahead of him into the gloom of the gallery. Not a sound. The silence of +death was in the big church.... Muttering to himself, he traversed the +long aisle at the top of the gallery, peering down into the vacant seats +that edged the blackness below. + +Suddenly he stopped. His eye had caught a gleam of something to the left +of the last pillar. He snuffed the wavering taper with his fingers and +leaned forward. A face grew out of the darkness and stood up. + +"What are you doing?" demanded the old man, falling back a step. + +"Eating my supper," said the youth. He held up a handkerchief. In the +dim light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped themselves, and a +generous odor of cheese floated out. + +"In the church!" said the verger, with an accent of horror. + +The youth's face regarded him pleadingly. + +"Come away!" said the old man sternly. + +He led the way down the steep stair, into a high, small room, lighted by +a narrow window over which cobwebs ran. "Here you may eat," he said +laconically. + +With a grateful glance the youth seated himself on the edge of a chair +and opening his handkerchief took out a piece of the dry bread. His +teeth broke it crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as he ate. + +The old man nodded with satisfaction. "That is the mouse," he said. + +The youth smiled faintly. + +"Where do you come from?" asked the verger. + +"From Lüneburg." + +"You walked?" + +The youth nodded. + +"I have seen you before, here." + +"Yes." + +The old man watched him a minute. "You ought to have some beer with +that bread and cheese," he said. "Have you no coppers?" + +The youth shook his head. "Reinken is my beer," he said, after a little. +His face was lighted with a sweet smile. + +The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He limped from the room. Presently he +returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. "Drink that," he +commanded. + +The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. "Ja, +that is good!" he said simply. + +The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In half an hour Reinken comes to play," +he suggested craftily. + +The youth started and flushed. "To-night?" + +"Ja." + +"I did not think he came at night," he said softly. + +"Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the +festival--with no one to hear," he added significantly. + +The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They +brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed. + +The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. "Nein," he said. +"It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you +before--when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come." He put +aside the youth's impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark +stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the +wall he slipped back a panel. + +The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great +organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he +turned, the old man was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his +twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle. + +The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pushing back +the sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell forward on his hands. The +hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the +master was old. Sixty years--seventy--ah, more than seventy. Nine years +ago he was that--at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap. +Seventy-nine--an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival +and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him +and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the +keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps +of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now and then. +But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power. +The boy's heart went from him.... If he might but touch a fold of the +faded gown--seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring +was about him--white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth. +"By the waters, the waters of Babylon; by the waters." The slender, +delicate hands called out the notes one by one. Tears ran down the boy's +face. Gropingly he felt for the door--only to seek a blessing of the +hands.... + +The old verger waited at the foot of the stairs, nodding in the dim +light. He sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes. + +"I want to speak to him," said the youth humbly. "Only a word!" + +The old man hesitated. The music had ceased and a slow step was coming +down the church--an old man's step. + +"Ja. Stand there," he whispered. "It shall be as you wish. Stand there!" +He pushed the youth behind a pillar and stepped forward, his taper held +aloft. + +"Mein Herr," he said softly. + +The organist paused and looked at him inquiringly. His face was very +tired. "What wouldst thou, Wilhelm?" he said gently. + +"It is a young man--" he stammered and paused. + +"A young man?" + +"He would speak with you, Mein Herr--but a word." The old man's voice +waited. + +"Speak with me? Does he bring credentials?" + +"Nay, your honor----" + +The great organist drew his gown about him. "I have not time, Wilhelm. +Many seek me and life runs fast. I have not time." He bowed courteously +and moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold of his robe floated out and +touched the hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden in the dim light. + + + + +VI + + +The choirmaster smiled deprecatingly. He had small, obsequious eyes and +narrow shoulders. "If the gracious Herr would be so good," he said, +shrugging them a little. "The people have assembled." He glanced back +over the fast-filling church and raised his eyebrows a trifle to +indicate the honor. + +Bach smiled gravely. A humorous look came into his eyes. "Let the +service go on as usual," he said quietly. "When it is done, I will +play--if time allows." + +The choirmaster squeezed his moist palms and wiped an anxious brow. "And +that, too--will be well," he murmured gratefully. "It will please the +old organist," he added apologetically. + +Bach nodded his head. "I had thought of that." + +The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked. + +The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile +played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him." + +"He has been a great player--in his day," said the choirmaster. The note +of apology in his voice had deepened. + +"That I know," said Bach shortly. + +"And now it is the people--they will not let him go," murmured the +choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play--every motet and +aria and choral--and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster +wiped his brow. + +"It is a long life," said Bach musingly. A sweet look had come into his +face, like the sunlight on an autumn field. He raised his hand with a +courteous gesture. "Let me be summoned later--at the right time." + +The choirmaster bowed himself away. + +Already the notes of the great organ filled the church. It was Reinken's +touch upon the keys--feeble and tremulous here and there--but still the +touch of the master. + +With bent head Bach moved to a place a little apart and sat down. +Curious glances followed him and whispers ran through the church, coming +back to gaze at the severe, quiet face, with its look of sweetness and +power. + +He was unconscious of the crowd. His thoughts were with the old man +playing aloft--the thin, serene face--the wrinkled hands upon the +keys--twenty years.... The time had come--at last.... The music stole +through his musings and touched him. He lifted his face as the sound +swept through the church. The fire and strength of youth had gone from +the touch, but something remained--something inevitable and gentle that +soothed the spirit and lifted the heart--like the ghost of a soul +calling to itself from the past. + +Bach started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. It was the choirmaster, +small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him blindly. + +At the top of the stairs the choirmaster turned and waited for him. "At +last we have the honor. Welcome to the greatest master in Germany!" he +said smoothly, throwing open the door. + +Without a word Bach brushed past him. His eye sought the great organ. +The master had left the bench and sat a few steps below, leaning +forward, his hands clasped on his cane, his white head nodding +tremblingly above it. Far below the words of the preacher droned to a +close, and the crowd stirred and craned discreet necks. + +Quietly the organist slipped into the vacant place. The Bach festival +danced before him.... Uncle Heinrich on the platform--"The great +Reinken--will no one of you promise?" His father's face smiling, his +father's hand on his head.... Slowly his hands dropped to the keys. + +The audience settled back with a sigh. At last they should hear him--the +great Bach. + +The silence waited, deep and patient and unerring, as it had waited a +decade--the touch of this man. A sound crossed it and the audience +turned bewildered faces. Question and dissent and wonder were in +them.... Not some mighty fugue, as they had hoped--not even an aria, but +a simple air from a quaint, old-fashioned choral,--"By the waters, the +waters of Babylon." They looked at one another with lifted brows. +Reinken's choral!--and played with Reinken's very touch--a gentle, +hurrying rhythm ... as Reinken used to play it--when he was young.... In +a moment they understood. Tears stood in bewildered eyes and a look of +sweet good-will swept the church. He had given back to them their own. +Their thought ran tenderly to the old man above, hearkening to his own +soul coming to him, strong and swift and eternal, out of the years. +Underneath the choral and above it and around, went the soul of Bach, +steadfast and true, wishing only to serve, and through service making +beautiful. He filled with wonder and majesty and tenderness the simple +old choral. + +A murmur ran through the church, a sound of love and admiration. And +above, with streaming eyes, an old man groped his way to the organ, his +hands held out to touch the younger ones that reached to him. "I thought +my work had died," he said slowly, "Now that it lives, I can die in +peace." + + + + +A WINDOW OF MUSIC + + + + +I + + +"About so high, I should think," said the girl, with a swift twinkle. +She measured off a diminutive man on the huge blue-and-white porcelain +stove and stood back to survey it. "And about as big," she added +reflectively. + +Her sister laughed. The girl nodded again. + +"And _terribly_ homely," she said, making a little mouth. Her eyes +laughed. She leaned forward with a mysterious air. "And, Marie, his coat +is green, and his trousers are--white!" + +The two girls giggled in helpless amusement. They had a stolid German +air of family resemblance, but the laughing eyes of the younger danced +in their round setting, while the sleepy blue ones of the older girl +followed the twinkling pantomime with a look of half protest. + +"They were in the big reception-room," went on the girl, "and I bounced +in on them. Mamma Rosine was giving him the family history--you and me." + +They giggled again. + +The younger one drew down her face and folded her hands in matronly +dignity, gazing pensively at the blue-and-white stove, her head a little +to one side. + +"My own voice is alto, Herr Schubert, and my daughter Caroline's; but my +daughter Marie has a _beautiful_ soprano." She rolled her eyes, with an +air of resigned sentiment, and shook the bobbing black curls gently from +side to side. "And he just twiddled his thumbs like this, and grunted." +She seized her sister around her plump waist and shook her vigorously. +"Don't you _see_ it?" she demanded. + +The older girl laughed hysterically, with disturbed eyes. + +"Don't, Cara!" she protested. + +The dark eyes bubbled again. + +"And his hair curls as tight--" She ran a hand along her rumpled curls, +then a look of dismay crossed the laughing face. She subsided into a +chair and folded her hands meekly. The little feet, in their stout +ankle-ties, swung back and forth beneath the chair, and the round, +German face assumed an air of wholesome stupidity. + +Her sister, whose slow glance had followed hers, gave a little gasp, and +sank into a chair on the opposite side of the stove, in duplicate +meekness. + +The door at the other end of the room had swung open, and a tall woman +swept in, followed by a diminutive figure in green coat and white +trousers. A pair of huge spectacles, mounted on a somewhat stumpy nose, +peered absently from side to side as he approached. + +"My daughters, Herr Schubert," said the tall lady, with a circumflex +wave of her white hand that included the waxlike figures on each side +the stove. + +They regarded him fixedly and primly. + +His glance darted from one to the other, and he smiled broadly. + +"I haf seen the young _Fräulein_ before," he said, indicating the +younger with his fat hand. + +The dark, round eyes gazed at him expressionless. His spectacles +returned the gaze and twinkled. + +"She has come into the reception-room while you were explaining about +the voice of Fräulein Marie," he said, with a glance at the other +sister. + +The waxlike faces shook a little. + +The lady regarded them severely. + +"She is only eleven," she murmured apologetically to the little man. + +"Ja! So?" he muttered. His glance flashed again at the immovable face. + +"Caroline, my child, come here," said her mother. + +The child slipped down from the stiff chair and crossed to her mother's +side. Her little hands were folded, and her small toes pointed primly +ahead. + +"My youngest daughter, Herr Schubert," said the lady, slipping an arm +around the stiff waist. "Caroline, this is your new music tutor, Herr +Schubert." + +The child bobbed primly, and lifted a pair of dark, reflective eyes to +his face. + +His own smiled shrewdly. + +"She will be a good pupil," he said; "it is the musical type." The green +coat and white trousers bowed circumspectly to the small figure. + +"Now, Marie"--the tall lady shook out her skirts--"Herr Schubert will +try your voice. But first, Herr Schubert, will you not give us the +pleasure?" She motioned politely toward the piano, and sank back with an +air of fatigued sentiment. + +He sat down on the stool and ran his white, fat fingers through his +curling hair. It bristled a little. The fingers fell to his knees, and +his big head nodded indecisively. Then it was thrown back, and the +fingers dropped on the keys: the music of a Beethoven sonata filled the +room. + +The grand lady forgot her sentiment, and the little waxlike figures gave +way. Their eager, tremulous eyes rested wonderingly on the broad back +of the player. + +The white fingers had dropped on the keys with the lightness of a +feather. They rose and flashed and twinkled, and ran along the keyboard +with swift, steel-like touch. The door at the end of the room opened +softly. A tall man entered. He looked inquiringly at the grotesque +green-and-white figure seated before the piano, then his glance met his +wife's, and he sank into a big chair by the door, a pleased look on his +dark face. The younger child glanced at him shyly. He returned the look +and smiled. The child's face brightened. + +The door opened again, and a slight figure stood in the doorway. He +looked approvingly toward the piano, and dropped into a chair at the +other side of the door, twirling his long, light mustaches. + +The player, wrapped in sound, was oblivious to the world outside. The +music enveloped him and rose about him, transfiguring the plain, squat +figure, floating above the spectacled face and crisp, curling locks. His +hearers glanced approvingly at one another now and then, but no one +spoke or moved. Suddenly they were aware that a new mood had crept into +the notes. Quick, sharp flashes of fear alternated with passages of +clear, sunlit strength, and underneath the changing melody galloping +hoof-beats rose and fell. + +The dark-eyed child sat poised forward, her hands clasped about her +knees, her tremulous gaze fixed on the flying fingers. She started and +caught her breath sharply. Faster and faster thudded the hoofs; the note +of questioning fear beat louder, and into the sweet, answering melody +crept a note of doubt, undefined and terrible, a spirit echo of the +flying hoofs. It caught up question and answer, and turned them to +sharp, swift flight. The pursuing hoofs struck the sound and broke it; +with a cry the child leaped to her feet. Her hands were outstretched, +and her face worked. The man by the door turned slightly. He held out a +quiet, imperious hand, and the child fled across the room, clasping the +hand in both her own, and burying her face in his shoulder. The swift +sound was upon them, around them, over them, sweeping past, whirling +them in its leaping, gigantic grasp. It hesitated a second, grew +strangely sweet and hushed, and dropped through a full, clear octave on +a low note. It ceased. The air quivered. The player sat motionless, +gazing before him. + +The dark man sprang to his feet, his face illumined, the child clinging +to his hand. He patted the dark curls carelessly as he flashed a smile +to the young man at the other side of the room. + +"That's mine, Schönstein," he said exultantly; "your tenor voice won't +carry that." + +The other nodded half grudgingly. + +They were both looking toward the player. He swayed a little on the +stool, stared at the ceiling a moment, and swung slowly about, blinking +uncertainly. + +The older man stepped forward, holding out a quick hand. + +"Wunderschön!" he said warmly. "What is it? Are there words to it? Can +you get it for me?" + +The tiny man seemed to shrink a little. He put out his fat hand and +waited a moment before he spoke. The full, thick lips groped at the +words. + +"It is--it is something--of my own," he said at last. + +They crowded about him, questioning and delighted. + +"Have you published it? What is it?" + +"'Der Erlkönig,'" said Schubert shortly. The child's face quivered. + +"I know," she said. + +Her father glanced down at her, smiling. + +"What do you know?" he said gently. + +"I read it," said the child, simply. She shivered a little. "The Erlking +carried him off," she said. She covered her face, suddenly in tears. She +was quivering from head to foot. + +The count glanced significantly at his wife. She came forward and laid +her hand on the child's shoulder. + +"Come, Caroline. Come, Marie," she said. "Later, Herr Schubert, I shall +have the pleasure of thanking you." She swept from the room. + +The three men remained, looking a little uncomfortably toward the closed +door. + +The count shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the musician. + +"A very impressionable child," he said lightly. + +"A very unusual child," returned the small man gravely. He was blinking +absently at the count's dark face. "She has the temperament," he +murmured softly; "she will learn." + +The count beamed on him. + +"We depend on you to teach her," he said suavely. "You will go with us +next week to Zelitz?" + +The young man bowed uncertainly. His full lips smiled doubtfully. "It is +an honor," he said, "but I must work. There is not time to lose. I must +work." He moved his big head from side to side and twirled his fingers. + +The count smiled genially. + +"It shall be arranged--a little house by yourself, apart from the +castle--a piano, absolute quiet, lessons only by your own arrangement." +He spoke quietly, in the tone of a superior granting terms. + +The thick lips opposite him were puckering a little, and the eyes behind +the great spectacles blinked mistily. + +"I must have time," repeated the little man--"time to think of it." + +The count's face clouded a shade. + +"We depend on you," he said. The tone had changed subtly. It was less +assertive. "With the Baron von Schönstein--" he motioned toward his +companion; the two young men bowed slightly--"with the baron we have a +fine quartet, and with you to train us--oh, you _must_ come!" His face +broke into a winning smile. + +The young man smiled in return. + +"I will come," he said; "but--free," he added. + +"Free as the wind," assented the count easily. The note of patronage was +gone. + +A big sunny smile broke over the musician's face. It radiated from the +spectacles and broadened the wide mouth. + +"_Ach!_ We shall do great things!" he announced proudly. + +"Great things," assented the count. "And 'Der Erlkönig'--I must have +'Der Erlkönig.' Bring it with you." + +"'Der Erlkönig' shall be yours," said Schubert grandly. There was the +air of granting a royal favor in the round, green-and-white little +figure as it bowed itself from the room. + +In the hall he stumbled a little, looking uncertainly about. A small +figure glided from a curtained window and approached him timidly. + +"Your hat is on the next landing, Herr Schubert," she said. + +He looked down at her. His big face flushed with pleasure. "You like my +music," he said bluntly. + +She shook her head gravely. + +"It is terrible," she replied. + +The spectacles glared at her. + +"It hurts me here." She raised a small, dark hand to her chest. + +The musician's eyes lighted. + +"That is right," he said simply; "ja, that is right--it hurts." + +They stood looking at each other in the dim light. The child's eyes +studied the big face wistfully. + +"I wish you would never play it again." + +"Not play my 'Erlkönig!'" He glared at her. + +She nodded slowly. + +"Never," she said. + +He waited a moment, looking at her sternly. He pushed his spectacles far +up on the short curls and rubbed his nose vigorously. + +The child's eyes waited on the queer, perturbed face. She gave a quick +little sigh. Her lips had parted. + +He looked down with a sudden big smile. + +"I will never play it for you again," he said grandly. The spectacles +descended swiftly, the door banged behind him, and the child was left +alone in the great dim hall. + + + + +II + + +The heat of the day was nearly spent, but the leaves of the oaks hung +motionless. The two young men walking beneath them had bared their +heads. One of them glanced up now and then, as if looking for coolness +in the green canopy. + +"It will rain before night," said the baron, casually, noting the +glance. His lithe figure, in its white suit and blue tie, showed no sign +of heat or fatigue. + +The musician, puffing beside him, wiped a handkerchief across his warm +face. + +"Ja, it will rain," he assented hopefully. + +The baron glanced at him, smiling. + +"You find ten miles a good stretch," he remarked. "We went too far, +perhaps." + +"Nein, not too far. We have had great talk," responded Schubert. His +face under its mask of perspiration shone gloriously. He glanced down a +little ruefully at his short, fat legs in their white casings. "But my +legs they do not talk," he announced naïvely. "Ja, they are very weary, +perhaps; but my soul is not weary." He struck his breast a resounding +blow with the palm of his hand and straightened his short body. + +The baron laughed musically. + +A low, sweet sound, stealing among the oaks, answered the laugh. They +stopped short, looking at each other. The sound came again, a far-off, +haunting peal, with a little catch and sob in its breath. + +They stole swiftly forward on tiptoe. Among the trees a roof and the +outline of a small building glimmered. It was covered with dark ivy. +Smoke came from the chimney, and through the open window drifted the +strange, alluring sound. + +"The house of the little folk of the wood," whispered Schubert, pressing +forward. + +"The wash-house," returned the baron, with a laugh. + +The sound had ceased. The wood, in the soft heat, was very still. + +"It is Marka," said the baron, glancing toward the house. "Marka has +charge of the linen. I heard her the other day, in one of the corridors, +singing; but Fritz hushed her up before she'd begun. She's a +Hungarian----" + +"Hush!" Schubert lifted a finger. + +The music had begun again. The sadness was gone from it. It laughed and +smiled to itself, and grew merry in a sweet, shy fashion that set the +air about them astir in little rippling runs. + +Schubert had started forward. + +"I must have it!" he said impetuously. + +"Take care!" warned Schönstein; "she is a witch." + +The musician laughed, stealing away among the tree-trunks. He moved +softly forward, his short fingers fumbling at his pockets. A torn +envelope and the stub of a pencil rewarded the search. His face lighted +as he grasped the pencil more firmly in his fingers, moistening it at +his thick lips; he approached the open window. + +He peered uncertainly into the dim room. By the fireplace stood a lithe, +quick figure, sorting the pile of linen at her side. As she lifted each +delicate piece she examined it for holes or rents. Careless little +snatches of song played about her lips as she worked. + +The torn envelope rested on the sill, and the stubby pencil flew across +its surface. The big face of the musician, bent above it, was alight +with joy. The sound ceased, and he straightened himself, pushing back +the hat from his brow, and gazing fondly at the little dots on the torn +bit of paper. + +The girl looked up with a start. The shadow had fallen on her linen. She +gazed with open, incredulous lips at the uncouth figure framed in the +window. + +A broad smile wreathed the big face. + +"Go on, Marka," he said. He nodded encouragement. + +She looked down at the pillow-slip in her hands, and back again to the +face in the window. The linen slip was plaited uncertainly in her +fingers. + +"Go on," said Schubert peremptorily. "You were singing. What was it, +that tune? Go on." + +She looked up again with bold shyness, and shook her head. + +The face glared at her. + +She smiled saucily, and, putting two plump hands into her apron pockets, +advanced toward the window. Her steps danced a little. + +Franz stared at the vision. He took off his spectacles and rubbed them, +blinking a little. + +"Waugh!" he said. + +She laughed musically. + +He replaced the spectacles, and looked at her more kindly. + +She was leaning on the other side of the casing, her arms folded on the +sill. Her saucy face was tilted to his. + +He bent suddenly, and kissed it full on the mouth. + +She started back, fetching him a ringing slap on the cheek. + +"You ugly thing!" she said. She laughed. + +Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a pleased smile on his lips. + +"You're too ugly to look at," said the girl promptly. + +He looked down at her and smiled. + +"That tasted good," he said. + +She pouted a little and glanced at the door. + +His glance followed hers. + +"Sing me some more," he suggested craftily. + +She threw back her head, and her lips broke into a strange, sweet sound. +The dark eyes were half veiled, and her full throat swelled. + +The wood about them darkened as she sang. Swift birds flashed by to +their nests, and the green leaves quivered a little. A clash broke among +the tree-tops; they swayed and beat heavily, and big drops fell. The +girl's eyes flashed wide. The song ceased on her lips. She glanced at +the big drops on the sill and then at the open door. + +"Come in," she said shyly. + +He opened the door and went in. + + + + +III + + +"We feared that you were not coming, Herr Schubert," said the countess +suavely. + +The group had gathered in the music-room.... The storm had ceased, and a +cool breeze came through the window. Outside in the castle grounds dim +lights glimmered. + +The young man advanced into the group a little awkwardly, rubbing his +eyes as if waking from a dream. + +The baron, standing by the piano, glanced at him sharply under lowered +lids. His lips took on a little smile, not unkind, but full of secret +amusement. + +The musician passed him without a glance, and, seating himself at the +piano, threw back his head with an impatient gesture. He turned swiftly +the leaves of music that stood on the rack before him. + +"Sing this," he said briefly. + +He struck a few chords, and they gathered about him, taking up their +parts with a careless familiarity and skill. It was Haydn's "Creation." +They had sung it many times, but a new power was in it to-night. The +music lifted them. The touch on the keys held the sound, and shaped it, +and filled it with light. + +When it was finished they glanced at one another. They smiled; then they +looked at the player. He sat wrapped in thought, his head bowed, his +fingers touching the keys with questioning touch. They moved back +noiselessly and waited. When he was like this, they did not disturb him. + +The melody crept out at last, the strange, haunting Hungarian air, with +unrest and sadness and passion and sweetness trembling through it. + +The baron started as he heard it. He moved carelessly to the window and +stood with his back to the room, looking out. + +The countess looked up with a startled air. She glanced inquiringly +toward her husband. He was leaning forward, a look of interest on his +dark face. The child at his knee shrank a little. Her eyes were full of +a strange light. On the opposite side of the room her sister Marie sat +unmoved, her placid doll eyes resting on the player with a look of +gentle content. + +The passionate note quickened. Something uncanny and impure had crept +into it. It raised its head and hissed a little and was gone, gliding +away among the low notes and losing itself in a rustling wave of +sound.... The music trembled a moment and was still; then the passion +burst in a flood upon them. Dark chasms opened; strange, wild fastnesses +shut them in; storm and license and evil held them. Blinding flashes +fell on them. Slowly the player emerged into a wide sunlit place. The +music filled it. Winds blew from the four quarters to meet it, and the +air was full of melody. + +The count stirred a little as the last notes fell. + +"A strange composition," he said briefly. + +The child at his knee lifted her head. She raised a tiny hand and +brought it down sharply, her small face aglow with suppressed anger. + +"It was not good!" she said. + +The player turned to look at her. His big face worked strangely. + +"No, it was not good," he said. "I shall not play that again. But it is +great music," he added, with a little laugh. + +The count looked at him shrewdly. He patted the child's trembling hand. + +"Now," he said soothingly, "something to clear away the mists! 'Der +Erlkönig,' We have never had it; bring it out." + +Schubert hesitated an instant. He glanced at the child. + +"That music--I have it not, Herr Count--I left it in Vienna." + +The count moved impatiently. + +"Play it from memory," he said. + +The musician turned slowly to the piano. + +The child's eyes followed him. She shivered a little. + +He swung back with a swift gesture, feeling absently in his pockets. + +"A piece of tissue-paper," he murmured. He had extracted a small comb +from one of his pockets. He regarded it thoughtfully. "If I had one +little piece of paper--" He looked about him helplessly. + +"There is some in the music-rack, Marie. Find it for him," said the +count. + +The girl found it and laid it in his hand. + +He turned back to the piano, adjusting and smoothing it. His broad back +was an effective screen. The group waited, a look of interest on their +faces. + +Suddenly he wheeled about, his hands raised to his mouth, the comb, +thinly covered with tissue-paper, at his lips, and his fat cheeks +distended. His eyes behind the big spectacles glowed portentously. + +They gazed at him in astonishment. + +He drew a full breath and drove it forth, a lugubrious note. With +scowling brows and set face he darted the instrument back and forth +across his puckered lips. It wailed and shrieked, and out of the noise +and discord emerged, at a galloping trot, "Der Erlkönig!" + +The child, who had been regarding him intently, threw back her head, and +a little laugh broke from her lips. Her face danced. She came and stood +by the player, her hand resting on his knee. + +Herr Schubert puffed and blew, and "The Erlking" pranced and thumped. +Now and then he stumbled and fell, and the fugitives flew fast ahead. + +The player's face was grave beyond belief, filled with a kind of fat +melancholy, and tinged with tragic intent. + +The faces watching it passed from question to amusement, and from +amusement to protest. + +"Nein, nein, mein Herr!" said the countess, as she wiped her mild blue +eyes and shook her blond curls. "Nicht mehr! nicht mehr!" + +With a deep, snorting sob the sound ceased. The comb dropped from his +lips, and the player sat regarding them solemnly. A smile curved his big +lips. + +"Ja," he said simply, "that was great music. I have made it myself, that +music." + +With laughter and light words the party broke up. At a touch from the +count the musician lingered. The others had left the room. + +The count walked to the open window and stood for a moment staring into +the darkness. Then he wheeled about. + +"What was it you played?" he said swiftly. + +"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert briefly. + +The count looked incredulous. + +"It was your own," he said. + +"Partly," admitted the musician. + +The count nodded. + +"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late----" + +Schubert shrugged his shoulders. + +"I told the child--you heard--I cannot play it again, that music." + +The count laughed lightly. + +"As you like." He held out a hand. "Good night, my friend," he said +cordially. "You are a strange man." + +The grotesque, sensitive face opposite him quivered. The big lips +trembled a little as they opened. + +"I am _not_ a strange man," said Schubert vehemently. "That music--it +was--the devil!" + +The count laughed again lightly. He held out his hand. + +"Good night," he said. + + + + +IV + + +A soft haze hung over Zelitz. The moonlight, filtering through it, +touched the paths and shrubs with shifting radiance and lifted them out +of shadow. Under the big trees the darkness lay black, but in the open +spaces it had given way to a gray, elusive whiteness that came and went +like a still breathing of the quiet night. + +A young girl, coming down one of the winding paths, paused a moment in +the open space to listen. The hand that held her trailing, shimmering +skirts away from the gravel was strong and supple, and the face thrown +back to the moonlight wore a tense, earnest look; but the dark eyes in +their curving lids were like a child's eyes. They seemed to laugh +subtly. It may have been that the moonlight shifted across them. + +A young man, standing in the shadow of the trees, smiled to himself as +he watched her. He stepped from beneath the trees and crossed the open +space between them. + +The girl watched him come without surprise. + +"It is a beautiful night, Herr Schubert," she said quietly as he stood +beside her. + +"A wonderful night, my lady," he answered softly. + +She looked down at him. + +"Why are you not in the castle, playing?" she demanded archly. + +"The night called me," he said. + +She half turned away. + +He started forward. + +"Do not go," he breathed. + +She paused, looking at him doubtfully. + +"I came to walk," she said. She moved away a few steps and paused again, +looking back over her shoulder. "You can come----" + +He sprang to her side, and they paced on in silence. + +She glanced at him from under her lids. + +His big face wore a radiant, absent-minded look. The full lips moved +softly. + +"What are you thinking of?" she said swiftly. + +He flushed and came back to her. + +"Only a little song; it runs in my head." + +"Hum it to me," she commanded. + +He flushed again and stammered: + +"Nein, nein; it is not yet born." + +Her eyes were on the shifting light. + +"Will you play it to me when it is done?" she asked softly. + +"You know that I will." + +She waited a moment. + +"You have never dedicated a song to me," she said slowly. "There are +the four to my father--but he is the count; and the one last year for +Marie--why to Marie?--and one for them all. But not one least little +song for me!" The words had dropped under her breath. Her dark eyes were +veiled. No one could say whether they laughed now. + +He looked up with a swift, brusque gesture. + +"They are all yours; you know it." The low voice rebuked her gently. +"For six years they are yours--all that I have done." The face was +turned toward her. It was filled with pleading and a kind of gentle +beauty, clumsy and sweet. + +She did not look at it. + +"There is one that I should like to hear," she said musingly. "You +played it once, years ago, on a comb. I have not heard it since." She +laughed sweetly. + +Schubert smiled. The hurt look stole from his eyes. + +"You will hear it--my 'Erlkönig'?" he demanded. + +She nodded. + +"I will play it to you when I come back," he said contentedly. + +She stopped short in the path. + +"When you come back!" The subtle eyes were wide. They were not laughing. + +"Ja, I shall----" + +"Where are you going?" + +He rubbed his great nose in the moonlight. + +"Nein, I know not. I know I must go----" + +She stopped him impatiently. + +"You will not go!" she said. He turned his eyes and looked at her. After +a moment her own fell. "Why will you go?" she asked. + +The face with its dumb look was turned toward her. + +"That little song--it calls me," he said softly. "When it is done I will +come back again--to you." + +She smiled under the lids. + +"That little song--is it for me?" she asked sweetly. + +"Ja, for you." He looked pleadingly at the downcast face. "The song--it +is very sweet; it teases me." + +The lids quivered. + +"It comes to me so close, so close!" He was silent, a rapt look of +listening in his face. It broke with a swift sigh. "Ach! it is gone!" + +She glanced at him swiftly. + +"I thought the songs came quickly." + +He shook his head. + +"The others, yes; but not this one. It is not like the others. It is so +sweet and gentle--far away--and pure like the snow.... It calls me--" +He broke off, gazing earnestly at the beautiful, high-bred face, with +its downcast eyes. + +"Nein! I cannot speak it," he said softly. "But the song it will speak +it for me--when I come." + +She lifted her head, and held out her hand with a gesture half shy and +very sweet. + +The moonlight veiled her. "I shall wait," she said gently--"for the +song." + +He held the slender hand for a moment in his own; then it was laid +lightly against his lips, and turning, he had disappeared among the +shadows. + + + + +V + + +"Hallo, Franz! Hallo--there!" + +Two young men, walking rapidly along the low hedge that shuts in the Zum +Biersack from the highway, lifted heated faces and glanced toward the +enclosure, where a youth seated at one of the tables had half risen from +his place, and was gesticulating with the open book in his hand to +vacant seats beside him. + +"It is Tieze," said Schubert, with a smile. "Come in." + +His companion nodded. The next instant a swift waiter had served them, +and three round, smiling faces surveyed one another above the foaming +mugs. + +"Ach!" said Tieze, looking more critically at the shorter man, "but you +have grown thin, my friend. You are not so great." + +Schubert smiled complacently. He glanced down at his rotund figure. + +"Nein, I am little," he assented affably. + +His companions broke into a roar of laughter. + +"Drink her down, Franz! drink her down!" said Tieze, lifting the heavy +stein. + +Schubert wiped the foam from his lips. + +"Ja, that is good!" He drew a deep sigh. + +He reached out his hand for the open volume that lay by his companion's +hand. It was given over in silence, and he dipped into it as he sipped +the beer, smiling and scowling and humming softly. Now and then he +lifted his head and listened. His eyes looked across the noisy garden +into space. + +His companions ignored him. They laughed and chatted and sang. Other +young men joined the group, and the talk grew loud. It was the Sunday +festival of Warseck. + +Schubert smiled absently across the babel. + +"A pencil--quick!" he said in a low tone to Tieze. His hand holding the +open book trembled, and the big eyes glowed with fire. + +Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook his head. + +Schubert glared at the careless group. + +"A pencil, I tell you!" he said fiercely. + +There was a moment's lull. Nobody laughed. Some one thrust a stub of +pencil across the table. A fat young man sitting at Schubert's side +seized it and, drawing a few music-bars on the back of a programme, +pushed it on to him. + +"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful sigh, "Goot--goot!" In another +moment he was lost. + +The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his +chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown. +Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise +broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the +garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert's big head wagged +absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and +flying pencil. + +Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spectacles flew to his +forehead, and his round face smiled genially at the laughing group. + +"Done?" asked the fat young man with a smile. He reached out his hand +for the scrawled page. + +Schubert drew it jealously back. + +"Nein," he said quickly. + +Tieze, who had come around the table, stood behind them, scanning the +barred lines and the scattered shower of notes. He raised a quick hand +to the group about the table. + +"Gott im Himmel!" he said excitedly. "Listen, you dunderheads!" + +Silence fell on the group. Every glance was turned to him. He hummed +softly a few bars of sweetest melody--under the garden's din.... The +notes stopped in a choking gasp, Schubert's hand on his throat. + +"Stop that!" he said hoarsely. The paper had been thrust loosely into +his coat pocket. His face worked fiercely. + +Tieze drew back, half laughing, half alarmed. + +"Franz! Franz!" he said. + +The other brushed his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath. + +"Ja," he said slowly, "I might have killed you." + +Tieze nodded. A look of curiosity held his face. + +"It is schön!" he said softly. "Schön!" + +Schubert turned abruptly. + +"It is not for you.... For years I search that song, over mountains, in +the storm, in the sunshine; but it has never come--till here." His eye +swept the crowded place. "Now I have it"--he patted the rough coat +pocket--"now I have it, I go away." + + + + +VI + + +The girl sitting on a rough bench by the low building stirred slightly. +She glanced behind her. Deep blackness in the wood, shifting moonshine +about her. She breathed a quick sigh. It was like that other night. Ah, +he would not come! + +Her face fell forward into her slender fingers. She sat immovable. The +shadow trembled a little, but the girl by the low house was blind and +deaf. Melodies of the past were about her. The shadow moved, but she had +no eyes to see; slowly it travelled across the short-cropped grass, +mystically green and white in the waning moon. Noiselessly it came; it +sank noiselessly into the shadow of the low house. A sound clicked and +was still. But the girl had not moved--memory music held her. It moved +upon her spirit, low and sweet, and stirred the pulse, and breathed +itself away. + +She stirred a little, and laid her cheek upon her palm. Her opened eyes +rested carelessly on the ground; her look flashed wide and leaped to the +lattice window beside her, and back again to the ground. A block of +light lay there, clear and defined. It was not moonlight or dream-light. +She sprang to her feet and moved a step nearer the window. Then she +stopped, her hand at her side, her breath coming quickly. The high, +sweet notes were calling from the night. Swiftly she moved. The door +gave lightly beneath her touch. She crossed the smooth floor. She was by +his side. The music was around them, above them, shimmering. It held +them close. Slowly he turned his big, homely face and looked at her, but +the music did not cease. It hovered in the air above, high and pure and +sweet. The face of the young countess bent lower; a look of tenderness +waited in her subtle eyes. + +He sprang to his feet, his hands outstretched to ward it off. + +"Nein. It is not I. It is the music. You shall not be bewitched!" His +hands made swift passes, as if he would banish a spell. + +She caught them to her and waited. + +"Am I bewitched--Franz?" she said at last. The voice was very low. The +laughing eyes were looking into his. + +"Ja, you are bewitched," he returned stoutly. + +"And you?" + +"I have only love for you." + +"And I have only love for you," she repeated softly. She hummed a bit of +the melody and stopped, looking at him sweetly. "It is my song," she +questioned--"the song you went to seek for me?" + +He lifted his head proudly. + +"It came for you." + +She nodded with brimming eyes. Her hands stole softly up to the big +face. They framed it in, with its look of pride, and touched it gently. +"Dear face!" she breathed, "dear ugly face--my music face!" + +They moved swiftly apart. The figure of the count was in the open +doorway. + +She moved forward serenely and slipped her hand in his. + +"I am here, Father Johann," she said quietly. + +His fingers closed about the white ones. + +"Go outside, Cara. Wait there till I come." + +Her dark, troubled eyes looked into his. They were not laughing now. + +"Nay, father," she said gently, "it is you who will wait outside--while +we say farewell." + +The count regarded her for a long moment, then he turned toward the +young musician, his face full of compassion and a kind of envy. + +"My friend," he said slowly, "for five minutes I shall leave her with +you. You will go away--forever." + +Schubert bowed proudly. His eyes were on the girl's face. + +As the door closed, she turned to him, holding out her hands. + +He took them in his, and they stood silent, looking into each other's +eyes. + +She drew a long breath. + +"What do people say when they are dying?" she asked. + +"Nein, I know not." His voice trembled. + +"There is so much, and it is nothing," said the girl dreamily. She moved +a step toward the piano, his hands locked fast in hers. "Tell me again +you love me!" she whispered. + +He took off the great spectacles, and laid them beside the scrawled +page. + +"Look in my eyes," he said gently. A kind of grandeur had touched the +homely features. The soul behind them looked out. + +She bent toward him. A little sob broke from her lips. She lifted the +hands and moved them swiftly toward the keys. + +"Tell me!" she said. + +With a smile of sadness, he obeyed the gesture. + +Melody filled the room. It flooded the moonlight. The count, pacing back +and forth, halted, a look of bewilderment in his face. He stepped +swiftly toward the door. + +The lights on the piano flared uncertainly. They fell on the figure at +the piano. It loomed grotesque and grim, and melted away in flickering +shadow. Music played about it. Strains of sadness swept over it in the +gloom and drifted by, and the sweet, high notes rose clear. A little +distance away the figure of the young countess stood in the shifting +light. Her clasped hands hung before her. She swayed and lifted them, +groping, and turned. Her father sprang to her. Side by side they passed +into the night. The music sounded about them far and sweet. + + * * * * * + +Franz Schubert, with his youth and his wreaths of fame, his homely face +and soul of fire, is dead these many years; but the soul of fire is not +dead.... The Countess Esterhazy, framed for love, is dust and ashes in +her marble house. The night music plays over her tomb. + +The night music plays wherever night is. + + + + +FREDERIC CHOPIN--A RECORD + + + PARIS, October 6, 1837. + +It has rained all day. No one has been in. No fantasies have crept to my +soul. Nothing to break the ceaseless, monotonous drip, drip, drip on my +heart. No one but a _garçon_ from the florist's bringing violets--the +great swelling bunch of English violets--Jane Stirling's violets! +Heavens, what a woman! I am like her now, in the little mirror on my +desk. Merely thinking of her has made me so! The great aquiline +nose--the shrewd, canny Scotch look--and the big mouth--alas, that +mouth! When it smiles I am enraged. Oh, Jane! Why dost thou haunt me, +night and day, with thy devotion and thy violets--and thy nose! Let +women be gentle, with soft glances that thrill--soft, dark flames. +Constantia's glance? Constantia? Nay, fickle. Fickle moon of yesternight +that drips--drips--drips. Will it never cease! I cannot play the pain +away. It eats into my heart. Yet life was made for joy and +love--love--love--sweet as dream-light--sweet as music--sad and sweet +and gay--love! The weariness rests upon me. The silver clock ticks. It +chimes the pain. One--two--three--nine--ten. The night wears slowly. I +must break the burden. I will look into a woman's face, and rest. + + + PARIS, October 10, 1837. + +It was a thought of inspiration. I threw off the ugly loose coat and my +_ennui_ together. I plunged into the fragrant bath. Little tunes hummed +to me as I rose from it. I put on clean, fresh linen--fine as silk--and +evening dress. My blood coursed freely, and the scent of violets came to +me sweetly. It followed through the wet, dripping streets, and clung to +me as I ascended the softly carpeted stair to the salon of the Countess +Czosnowska. I was merry in my soul. Then a shadow crossed me. It fell +upon my shoulder, and I turned in fear to look. No one--except a naked +Venus on the wall. My good angel drew me on. I have seen her thrice +since then. It seems a day. She came and looked into my eyes, while I +played. It was fairy-music, witching and sweet--a little sad--the +fairies of the Danube. My heart danced with them in the fatherland. Her +eyes looked into mine. Sombre eyes--strange eyes. What did they say? She +leaned forward on the piano, gazing at me passionately. My soul leaped +back and stood at bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was a man's +face--breadth and depth and coarseness--and the strange, sad eyes. I +longed for them and shrank upon myself. She moved away. Later we spoke +together--commonplaces. Liszt brought her to me, where I was sitting +alone. Camellias framed us in. A sweet shadow rested on my heart. She +praised my playing--gently. She understood. But the strong, sad, ugly +face! I have seen her twice since then. In her own _salon_, with the +noblest minds of France about her--and once alone. Beautiful +face--haunting sadness! Aurora--sweetest name! She loves me! +Day-spring--loved-one! The night lags---- + + + PARIS, November 5, 1838. + +We are to go away together--to the South. There is a strange pain at my +chest, a haunting cough. It will not let me go. I shall escape it--in +the South. She cares for me, day and night. Her sweet breath! My +mother's face is sad in my dreams. I shall not dream when the sun shines +warm upon me--in the South---- + + + MAJORCA, November 16, 1838. + +We are alone--two souls--in this island of the sea. The surf beats at +night. I lie and listen. Jane Stirling came to see us off. She brought +violets--great, swelling English violets. I smell them in the mouldy +cloister cells, night and day. This monks' home is cold and bleak. The +wind rattles through it, and at night it moans. A chill is on me. When I +cough it echoes through my heart. I love the light. Sweet music waits +the light. I will not die. The shadow haunts. But life is strong. +Jane's violets on my grave! I will not die. + + + PARIS, March 14, 1839. + +Paris--gay, live Paris! The cabs rattle sweetly on the stones. I can +breathe now. The funeral dirge will wait. In Marseilles we came upon +Nourrit--dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into +eternity! I knew it all. The solemn mass ascended for his soul--and high +above it all, I spoke in swelling chords--mystery--pain--justice--the +fatherland. A requiem for his soul--for Chopin's soul? And Heine smiles. +Brave Heine! With death upon his heart--inch by inch he fights it--with +laughs. I saw him yestermorn. His great eyes winked. They made a bet at +me. He will outlast us yet, he swore, ten years. Brave fight! Shall I +live to see it stop--gasp--the last quip fail on sunny lips? I peer +into the years between. They hang among the mists. Aurora comes. It is a +week. Sweet day-spring! + + + NOHANT, October 11, 1839. + +They tell me I am well. The cough has ceased and the pain. But deep +below, it beats. Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only when I play will they +glow. They fill the world with light. I sit and play softly--her pen +moves fast. She can write with music--music--over her--around--Chopin's +music, whispered low--but clear as love. They said once George Sand was +clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes her great. It eats the soul. For +thee, Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I would not mind. I give +thee all. I ask a glance--a touch--a smile when thou art weary--leave to +love thee and to make sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel, +love--with thy veiled eyes? + + + NOHANT, May 3, 1847. + +I must have money. I am a burden--sick--a cough that racks the soul. +Aurora comes but seldom. The cough hurts her. She is busy. I do not look +into her eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It stretches from my +window--sunny, French field! Miles away, beneath a Polish sky, I see my +mother's eyes. Unshed tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she calls +to me, "thou wilt be a great musician. Poland will be proud of thee!" +Poland--dear land--proud of Frederic Chopin! My heart is empty. It +aches. + + + NOHANT, June 1, 1847. + +It is over. Life has stopped. A few years more or less, perhaps. But +never life again. I do not write the words. They hammer at my brain. +She spoke so sharply--and my soul was sick. I did not think she could. +If she had waited--I would not have tarried long, not too long, Aurora. +Hadst thou waited--weary of the burden, the sick burden of my complaint! +Money--I shall work--Waltzes that the public loves--and pays for. +Mazurkas from a torn heart! I shall work--a little while--20,000 francs +to set me free! I will die free! + + + PARIS, June 10, 1847. + +Strange fortune that besets a man! The 20,000 franc paper is in my hand. +I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling and her goodness haunt my gloom. +She only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, Scotch lady! With thy heart of +gold, thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead! Thy francs lie heavy in +my hand. "Master," she writes my name. She only asks to give. But women +should be gentle, with soft, dark eyes that thrill. The day has closed. +I shall die free! + + + STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, June 16, 1848. + +I am lying in a great chamber of the castle. The house is still. The +guests have creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse voice is hushed. +When I played for them below, my fingers twitched and my heart ached +with the numbness. I could have cried with weariness and pain. The +faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. He has undressed me and laid me +here among the swelling pillows. The light burns fitfully. It dances +among the shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist draws near. It peers +into my window. It is Jane's soul--soft and floating wool--and clammy. +My heart is ice--ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me all the day. We +talk of music! Strange, disjointed talk--with gaps of common +sense--hero-worship--and always the flame that burns for me--slow and +still. She has one thought, one wish--to guard my days with sweet +content. And in my soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its way to +the last citadel. I have not long to wait. I shall not cry out with the +pain. Its touch is sweet--like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine +writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes +keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my +_salon_--shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's +wash-basin--going!--for ten sous--going!" My pictures, caskets, +tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano +with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady! +Cruel one--my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever--false dawn that +could not stand the sun's deep kiss--Aurora. Unrest--unrest--will it +never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The +silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it +with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from +thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast--upon +this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and +burns--it shall be severed, chord by chord--it shall return to the land +that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists--with my mother's +brow and mouth and chin. Poland that sings and weeps--sad land. My +heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it +shall rest--at last--rest! + + + + +THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE + + + + +I + + +"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!" + +The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the +foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The +moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in +the dark front. + +The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call +again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and +occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, +handsome youth as they drifted past. + +The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He +carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the +cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it +with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant +seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat. + +Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor +Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small +instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her +words. + +"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" +He bowed to the man opposite him. + +"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big +and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men +joined in. + +The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant +craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous +strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face +of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face +of many pictures; while the big man opposite--her husband--the famous +Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to +attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group +that drew the eyes and held them to-night. + +He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome--known in Venice years +ago, it was whispered--a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the +beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her +red-gold locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, +dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. +He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves +dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from +the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his +companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite--and +filled with gentle, wondering light. + +Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look +of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak--but +Giorgione stayed him with a gesture. + +"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! +Halt for the Fondaco!" + +The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose +white and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly +along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, +Titian, on the big façade to the south, and Zarato and I--" He laid his +hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and +I on the inner court." + +The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, +with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece +of work," he said. + +Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With +three Venetians at the frescos--we shall see, ah--we shall see!" He +laughed again good-humoredly. + +The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear +moonlight. + +"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin." + +"To-morrow Zarato comes to me--for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, +almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face. + +The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat +staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark +eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly. + +Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me." + +Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't +spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must +wait." + +"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can +wait then--a year, six months--I care not." + +Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, +Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes--paint +gold. But never paint an artist--an artist and a gentleman!" + +They laughed merrily and the boat glided on--out into the lagoon and the +broad, flooding moonlight. + +"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, +breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the +opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying +the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear. + +The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath +its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift +breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh. + +Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he +murmured softly. + +She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help +it," she said; "it is the music." + +"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry--half cynical. + +Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her. + +Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden +water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not +reveal it. + +Violante glanced at him timidly. + +"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the +tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. +Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. + +"_Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit_," rang out the voice. + +"_Qua boir soit--qua boir soit_," repeated Violante softly. + +The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. +Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water. + +The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once +more!--Bella!" He clapped his hands. + +Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met--a long, slow +look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened. + +Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back +against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over +the voluptuous figure at his side--the snowy tunic and the ruby-red +bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and +wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them--something tender, +almost sweet. + +He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said +under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture." + +She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling. + +Giorgione leaned forward, smiling. + +"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face +and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?" + +"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He +had not removed his eyes from her face. + +Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" +he murmured tragically. "But _you_ will help, Zarato. You will not go +paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half +querulous. + +The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew +his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" +His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you--if--I can." + + + + +II + + +"A little more to the right, please." + +Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice +murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the +sitter to his canvas. + +"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that--ten +minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift +strokes. + +The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face +lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the +tone laughed gently. + +Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too +much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us." + +"I am indebted to you!" said the young man politely. He lifted his hand +with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily +to the console beside him. + +With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with +satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!--Good!" he murmured +under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He +hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall +figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift +decision. + +The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the +Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells. + +The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the +studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant +words--to the sound of a voice. + +"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for +to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically. + +The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and +lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You +paint like no other," he said quietly. + +Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. +"They will not call it like Palma, this time--nor like Giorgione, nor +Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled +over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls. + +The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have +outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward +a canvas across the room. + +"But this--" he laid his hand lightly on the frame--"this was after +Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry. + +Titian nodded curtly. + +"It was the model--partly," he said half grudgingly. + +"I know--Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. +"Would she pose for any one--for me, do you think?" + +Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy--Better not! When she gets +into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato--bewitched forever! Look +there--and there--and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases. + +The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad," +he said gravely. + +Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've +no idea how I had to fight to keep her out--And, oh, that hair!" He +groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases--"Palma's worse!" he +chuckled. + +The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And +Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly. + +Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her." + +The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and +mechanically turned the leaves. + +The older man eyed him keenly. + +"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young +man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her--except +that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly. + +The young man's eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out, +pointing to a name scrawled on the margin. + +Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that +the light fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" he said +enthusiastically. + +The young man nodded. "An Aldine--I saw that. What does the marking +mean?" He asked the question almost rudely. + +His companion turned the leaves. "It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he +said slowly.... "I've been looking up Violante's pose.--Here it is." He +read the lines in a musical voice. + +A heavy frown had come between the handsome eyes watching him. "You'll +not paint her like that?" + +"I rather think I shall," responded Titian slowly. "She has promised." + +"And Giorgione?" + +"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. He trusts her--as I do." He laid +his hand again on the shoulder near him. "I tell you, man, you're wrong. +Believe in her and--leave her," he said significantly. + +The shoulder shrugged itself slightly away. The young man picked up his +hat from the table near by. He raised it courteously before he dropped +it with a little laugh on the dark curls. + +"I go to an appointment," he said. + + + + +III + + +A face looked over the balcony railing as the gondola halted at the foot +of the steps. It smiled with a look of satisfaction, and the owner, +reaching for a rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick touch over the +balcony edge. + +It fell at the feet of the young man stepping from the gondola, and +caused him to bend with a deep flush. It touched his lips lightly as he +raised himself and lifted his velvet cap to the face above. + +She smiled mockingly. "You are late," she said--"two minutes late!" + +"I come!" he replied, springing up the steps. In another minute he was +beside her, smiling and flushed, looking down at her with deep, intent +gaze. + +She made a place for him on the divan. "Sit down," she said. + +He seated himself humbly, his eyes studying hers. + +She smiled lazily and unfurled her fan, covering her face except the +eyes. They regarded him over the fringe of feathers. + +"Where have you been?" she demanded. + +"With Titian." + +"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold so--!" She laughed musically. + +Zarato nodded. "I go to him to-morrow." + +"Has Titian finished?" + +"For the present--He will lay it away." + +"I know," she laughed, "--to mellow!... How did you like it?" + +He hesitated a second. "It was a little rough," he confessed. + +"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly. "Like a log of wood--or a heap of +stones--or a large loaf of bread." + +He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to him often?" he asked. + +Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his face. "Not now," she replied. + +He returned the look searchingly. "You are going to?" + +"Yes," she assented. + +He still held her eyes. "I don't like it," he said slowly. + +The ghost of a smile came into her face. Her eyes danced in the shadow +of it. "No?" she said quietly. + +"No!" + +She waited, looking down and plucking at the silken fringe of her +bodice. "Why?" she asked after a time. + +He made no reply. + +She glanced up at him. He was looking away from her, across the gay +canal. His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, and his lip trembled. + +Her glance fell. "Why not?" she repeated softly. + +He looked down at her and his face flushed. "I don't know," he said. He +bent toward her and took the fan from her fingers. + +She yielded it with half reluctance, her eyes mocking him and her lips +alluring. + +He smiled back at her, shaking his head slightly and unfurling the fan. +He had regained his self-possession. He moved the fan gently, stirring +the red-gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe on her bodice. It +rose and fell swiftly, moved in the soft current of air. His eyes +studied her face. "Will you sit for me some day?" he said. + +She nodded without speaking. The breath came swiftly between the red +lips and the eyes were turned away. They rested on the façade of a tall +building opposite, where a flock of doves, billing and cooing in the +warm air, strutted and preened themselves. Their plump and iridescent +breasts shone in the sun. + +Her hand reached for the cithara at her side. "Shall I sing you their +song?" she said, "The Birds of Venus." + +He smiled indulgently. Her voice crooned the words. + +"Sing!" she said imperiously. He joined in, following her mood with +ready ease. + +There was silence between them when the song was done. She sat with her +eyes half closed, looking down at the white hands in her lap. + +He lifted one of them gently, his eyes on her face. She did not stir or +look up. He raised it slowly to his lips. + +The warm breath stirred a smile on her face. She glanced at him from +under falling lids. + +He dropped the hand and stood up with a half cry. + +"I must go--Violante--I must--go!" He groped to where the doorway +opened, cool and dark, behind them, "I must go," he repeated vaguely. + +She rose and came to him slowly. "You must go," she said softly. + +They passed into the dark, open doorway. + +Below, in the hot sun, the gondola rocked at the foot of the stairs. + + + + +IV + + +The noon-bell in the southern turret of the Fondaco chimed softly. A +painter at work on the façade near by looked up inquiringly at the sun. +He smiled absently to himself and, dropping his brushes, descended +lightly from the scaffolding to the ground. He walked away a few +steps--as far as the ground permitted--and turned to look at the work +above. + +"Not so bad," he murmured softly, "--not so bad ... and better from the +water." He glanced at the canal below. A white hand from a passing +gondola waved to him and motioned approvingly toward the colors of the +great wall. + +"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one from another craft. The canal took up +the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo,--Tiziano!" + +Titian raised his painter's cap and returned the salute. He stood with +one foot on the parapet, looking down and smiling with easy grace, at +the pleasure-loving crowd below. A man came in sight around the corner +of the Fondaco, walking slowly and looking up at the picture as he came. + +"Well?" Titian glanced at him keenly. + +"Great!" responded Giorgione heartily. "The Judith bears the light well, +and when the scaffolding is down it will be better yet.... Venice will +be proud!" He laid his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder and +motioned toward the throng of boats that had halted below, gazing at the +glowing wall. + +"To-day Titian--to-morrow another!" said Titian a little bitterly. + +"Why care?" responded Giorgione. "Some one to-day told me that my +Judith, on the south wall here, surpasses all my other work together." +He laughed cordially. + +Titian looked at him keenly. His face had flushed a little under the +compliment. "It is like you not to care," he said affectionately. + +"Care! Why should I care--so that the work is done?" His eyes rested +lovingly on the façade. "It is marvellous--that trick of light," he said +wonderingly.... "You must teach it to me." + +Titian laughed under his breath. "I learned it from you." + +Giorgione shook his head. "Not from me...." he replied doubtingly. "If +you learned it from me, others would learn from me." He stood, looking +up, lost in thought. + +"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian abruptly. + +Giorgione started vaguely. A flush came into his face. "He stopped +work--an hour ago," he said. + +Titian's eyes were on his face. + +The open friendliness had vanished. It was turned to him with a look of +trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli--" His speech hesitated and broke +off. He was looking down at the dark water. + +Titian answered the unspoken question. "Yes, I had thought," he said. +His voice was very quiet. + +His companion looked up quickly. "He is with her now, it may be.... I +told them that I should not go home at the noon-bell." He looked about +him slowly--at the clear sky and at the moving throng of boats below-- + +"I am going home." He spoke the words with dull emphasis. + +Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!" + +Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and +clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if--if Zarato was not my +friend," he said as he turned away. + +"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who +distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly. + +"Remind him that he is to sit for me this afternoon," he called more +lightly, as the other moved away. + +"I will remember," said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had +disappeared in the maze of buildings. + +Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered +up some tools from a bench near by.... The look in his friend's eyes +haunted him. + + + + +V + + +It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for +the appointed sitting with Zarato. + +He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood +back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, +gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, +gleaming eyes formed themselves--Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at +him, pathetic and fierce. + +With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about +him for his cap, and found it at last--on the back of his head. He +settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I +shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was gone from +the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio. + +As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together +against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on +the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent +shoulder. + +The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's +eyes--a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him +stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, +gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and +looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated. + +Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said +frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show. + +"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a +child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat. + +For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, +and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the +studio as if seeking something--and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he +whispered. + +Titian started. "No!" + +Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that +was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze +fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his +face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, +and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness. + +Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and +touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his +friend's shoulder till the servant returned. + +"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, +slender glass to his lips. + +The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" +he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on +his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and +looked at his friend with searching eyes. + +"Where have they gone?" he demanded. + +Titian shook his head. "How should I know?" + +"He said he was going to you." + +"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!" + +Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it +exultantly. + +"What do you mean!" + +"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again. + +"You did not----?" + +Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and +his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips. + +"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A +piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and +charred. He took it up fondly. + +"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end. + +Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said. + +Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have +seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely. + +"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to +take effect. + +Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio. + +"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. +"Home! Row for life!" + +A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy +might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called +to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning. + +With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On +the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms +hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, +scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the +closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the +mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent +closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor +was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on +the firm flesh. + +With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the +hand. + +It rested limply in his grasp. + +Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread +the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell +you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." +He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I +must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet. + +"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?" + +He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly. + +"You don't know! She has left home----" + +"But not with me." + +The two men stood staring at each other. + +There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a +group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. +The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room +and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened +his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining +floor. + +"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet +figure. "He said so." + +"Who said it?" said Titian harshly. + +"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let +us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her +here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick +up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room. + +Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless +figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that +shone in the wet folds. + +"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and +fell forward. + +The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the +ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from +the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight. + + + + +VI + + +"You must go!" said Titian sternly. + +The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his +head. "I have work to do." + +Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it--I tell +you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to +keep them--this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds +them." + +The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death--I +crave it!" His arms fell at his sides. + +His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked +shortly. + +"Giorgione--" The voice was tense. "He shall pay--to the uttermost!" + +"For that?" Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand. + +The young man raised it with a scornful gesture. + +"For that"--he spoke sternly--"I would not touch the dog. It is for +her!" His voice dropped. + +Titian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice. + +The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer--as she suffered," he +added with slow significance. + +"Would that content you? Would you go away--and not return?" + +"I would go--yes." + +Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at +last, "the Lord has avenged her." + +The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you +mean?" + +"That she is avenged," said Titian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the +year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace." + +"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly. + +Titian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!" + +The young man smiled. + +Titian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he +said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the +door."--He waited a breath. "The man is mad!" + +The young man started sharply. + +"Mad!" repeated Titian. + +Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated +softly. The gloved hand trembled. + +A look of relief stole into Titian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he +asked quietly. "Will you go?" + +"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!" +he whispered softly. + +"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight--you would +be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row +you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you." + +The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he +said humbly. + +"For you and Giorgione and for--her." + +They sat silent. + +"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with +the thought. + +Titian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly. + +The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he +said, "a dozen and more." + +"Yes." + +"Who will finish them?" + +"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded. + +"Shall you?" + +Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he +said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him--I +harbor you." + +The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," he said humbly. He shivered a +little. + +"And not return till I send for you." + +"I will not return--till you send for me!" + + + + +VII + + +Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there +on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm +air. + +A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the +moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among +the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful +eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, +smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none +remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge +or to remember a man--when the waters close over him.... Slowly the boat +drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change +of color.... "Bride of the Sea," he murmured as the boat swept on. +"Bride of the Sea--There is none like thee in beauty or power!" His +eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to +them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and +supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, +incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man's +eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene. + +With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of +stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and +ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he +disappeared within. + +Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He +sprang forward, holding out his hands. + +The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," +he said slowly. + +"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the +glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance. + +"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I +have not done a stroke since that last night--the night I rowed you out +to the lagoon." + +"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below. + +Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first--too strained and +weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them +ruefully. "And then--" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to +finish his pictures.... There has been no time." + +"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice. + +Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know--He would not +see me--to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for +me. I did the work and asked no questions--for friendship's sake." He +sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below. + +"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of +Giorgione--They will name you--Titian!" He laughed bitterly. + +The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." +He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?" + +The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"--with a swift look. "I am +hunted! I cannot wipe away your face--as it looked that night. I paint +nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He +laughed shortly and rose to his feet. + +The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I +am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always." + +Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He +turned away to an easel. + +"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had +not moved from his place. + +Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes." + +"Why not finish that?" + +The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled +among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, +looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand +reached out for a brush. + +The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence. + +"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best +finish it as it stands--I am ready." He moved to his place by the +console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease. + +Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps +the pose," he said thoughtfully. + +"Why?" The question came sharply. + +The painter colored under it. "I had planned--to make much of +the--hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be +simple," he added hastily. + +"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence +behind the words. + +Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him +with quick, gleaming lights. + +The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my +feelings are hurt I will tell you." + +The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and +brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed +on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the +picture crept a glow of living color and of light. + +At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more--to-day," he said slowly. +His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly. + +The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing +canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile. + +"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself +slightly. "I would not part with it--not for all the gold of Venice!" + +The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he +stammered. + +"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is +our secret--hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand." + +Titian's eyes stared at him. + +"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did +it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her--and guided +it...." His voice ceased with a catch. + +Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor +child!" + +The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever--forever." He +repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from +its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he +moved. A hand stayed it--the gloved hand. + +There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, +laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in. + +Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of +a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm +beside him. + +The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his +arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the +open secret that remains unguessed." + + + + +THE LOST MONOGRAM + + + + +I + + +The woman seated in the light of the low, arched window was absorbed in +the piece of linen stretched on a frame before her. As her fingers +hovered over the brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with a look of +satisfaction and lighted the face, making it almost handsome. It was a +round, smooth face, untouched by wrinkles, with light-blue eyes--very +near the surface--and thin, curved lips. + +She leaned back in her chair to survey her work, and her lips took on a +deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. Her face, with a look of +listening, turned toward the door. + +The young man who entered nodded carelessly as he threw back the +blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the +room. + +She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She +spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?" + +"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from +him. "I met Pirkheimer--we got to talking." + +The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment. + +The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by +the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered +in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look. + +The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift +touch. + +As the man rose to his feet her eyes flashed a look at the canvas in +his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him. + +He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips +whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed +one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness +filled his absorbed face. + +She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click. +"Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and +even, and held no trace of resentment. + +He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze +returned to the easel. + +The thin lips drew to a line. They did not speak. She took off her +thimble and laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered up the scattered +skeins of linen and silk, straightening each with a little pull, and +laid them in the case. She stabbed a needle into the tiny cushion and +dropped the scissors into their pocket. Then she rose deliberately, her +chair scraping the polished boards as she pushed it back from the frame. + +He looked up, a half frown between the unseeing eyes. + +She lifted the embroidery-frame from its rest and turned toward the +door. "I have other work to do if I am not to pose for you," she said +quietly. + +He made no reply. + +Half-way to the door she paused, looking back. "Herr Mündler was here +while you were out. We owe him twenty-five guldens. It was due the +fifth." She spoke the words crisply. Her face gave no sign of emotion. + +He nodded indifferently. "I know. I shall see him." The soft whistle +was resumed. + +"There is a note from the Rath, refusing you the pension again." She +drew a paper from the work-box in her hand and held it toward him. + +He turned half about in his chair. "Don't worry, Agnes," he said. The +tone was pleading. He did not look at the paper or offer to take it. His +eyes returned to the easel. A gentle light filled them. + +She dropped the paper into the box, a smile on her lips, and moved +toward the easel. She stood for a moment, looking from the pictured face +of the Christ to the glowing face above it. Then she turned again to the +door. "It's very convenient to be your own model," she said with a +laugh. The door clicked behind her. + +He sat motionless, the grave, earnest eyes looking into the eyes of the +picture. Now and then he stirred vaguely. But he did not lift his hand +or touch the brushes beside it. Gazing at each other, in the fading +light of the low window, the two faces were curiously alike. There was +the same delicate modelling of lines, the same breadth between the eyes, +the long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive lips, and in the eyes the +same look of deep melancholy--touched with a subtle, changing, human +smile that drew the beholder. It disarmed criticism and provoked it. +Except for the halo of mocking and piercing thorns, the living face +might have been the pictured one below it. The look of suffering in one +was shadowed in the other. + +There was a light tap at the door and it flew open. + +The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a +sunny smile. "Pirkheimer!" He sprang to his feet. "What now?" + +The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He +nodded toward it approvingly. + +"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes studied the picture. "I got to +thinking it over after you left me--I was afraid you might touch it up +and spoil it--I want it just as it is." His eyes sought his companion's +face. + +The painter shook his head. "I don't know--not yet--you must leave it +with me. It's yours. You shall have it--when it's done." + +"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here--sign." He picked up a +brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to +the painter. + +He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly +his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing +locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs +of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny +figures, a date--1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he +stepped back with a little sigh. + +His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll +take it." + +The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said. + +"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it." + +"Yes, I said it--not yet." + +The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse +hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me." + +The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it--not even to you," he +said. His eyes were on the canvas. + +"But it's mine!" + +"It's yours--for friendship's sake." + +The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. +"You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly. + +"Ay, I'll tell Agnes--that it's yours. But not what you paid for it," +added the painter thoughtfully. + +"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was +half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing +from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living +shame!" he muttered under his breath. + +The artist looked up quickly. "What?" + +"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God, +Dürer, you had a free hand!" he broke out. + +The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple +fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded, +smiling. + +The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of +dissent. "Marriage--for a man like you! Two hundred florins--for dowry!" +He laughed scornfully. + +His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes. + +The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said. +"Don't be angry." + +The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as +if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought. + +"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly. + +"I shall finish it," replied Dürer, without looking up. + +The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Dürer." +He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand. + +The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, +my friend." He held out his hand frankly. + +Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said. + +"Always." + +"And you will never want--if I can help you." + +"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud. + +Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to +it," he said. "It is a promise." + +"I shall hold you to it," laughed Dürer. + +When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved +once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, +looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the +basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed +a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the +mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large +brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track +behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture +mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the +artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush +moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened. +Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It +moved swiftly across the monogram--and paused. The artist peered forward +uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another +stroke of the brush--and another--they were gone forever. + +The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor +humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered +in it--hauntingly. + +He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the +picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to +the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Dürer--his work," he said +under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for +him forever." + + + + +II + + +For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on +the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his +treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the +picture had remained unmoved against the wall. + +Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's +velvet purse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without +number had been executed for him--rings and stones and tapestries, +carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet--till the +Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate +workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Dürer's brush adorned +its walls--grotesque monks and gentle Virgins. But the Face bided its +time against the wall. + +To-day--for the first time in twenty-five years--the Face of the Christ +was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not +the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white, +lay upon a quiet breast--outside the city wall. + +The funeral cortège had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Dürer had come +directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of +her possessions. It was all hers--the money the artist had toiled to +leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish +guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and +copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had +loved--they were all hers, except, perhaps, the copperplates for +Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas +against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often +begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good +price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed +the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly. +The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well +the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A +sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush +on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's +work--his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate, +strong face--the Christ face--Albrecht's face--at thirty-three.... Had +he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She moved away, looking +about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel. +She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath +the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with +curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my +dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it +to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this +day, June 8, 1503, in my home in Nürnberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht +Dürer." + +She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The +discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes, +waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady." + +For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of +paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it +with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I +shall receive him here," she said. + +He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He +laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her. + +She returned the look coldly. + +"It is mine!" he said. + +She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the +table beside her. + +He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine. +You see--it is mine!" + +"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had +read the paper." + +With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered +oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round +eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet +brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed, +"you have painted it out. I saw him sign it--years ago--twenty-five +years!" + +She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said +sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases. + +He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I +should know it in a thousand!" + +"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it +sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?" + +He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out +of sight." + +She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with +downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal. + +He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the +same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of +hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the +city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low +room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my +collection. You will want to sell them." + +The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said, +"to Herr Umstätter." A little smile played about the thin lips. + +"Sold! Already!" The round eyes bulged at her. "My God!" he shouted +fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if he had left it where you +could!" + +She raised the blue eyes and regarded him calmly. "The estate is without +condition," she said. + +He groaned as he backed toward the door. The canvas was hugged under his +arm. At the door he paused, looking back over the room. His small eyes +winked fast, and the loose mouth trembled. + +"He was a great man, Agnes," he said gently. "We must keep it clean--the +name of Dürer." + +She looked up with a little gesture of dismissal. "It is I who bear the +name," she said coldly. + +When he was gone she glanced about the room. She went over to a pile of +canvases and turned them rapidly to the light. Each one that bore the +significant monogram she set aside with a look of possession. She came +at last to the one she was searching. It was a small canvas--a Sodom and +Gomorrah. She studied the details slowly. It was not signed. She gave a +little breath of satisfaction, and took up the brush from the bench. She +remembered well the day Albrecht brought it home, and his childish +delight in it. It was one of Joachim Patenir's. Albrecht had given a +Christ head of his own in exchange for it. The brush in her fingers +trembled a little. It inserted the wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying +legs, and overtraced it with a delicate D. She paused a moment in +thought. Then she raised her head and painted in, with swift, decisive +strokes, high up in one corner of the picture, a date. It was a safe +date--1511--the year he painted his Holy Trinity. There would be no one +to question it. + +She sat back, looking her satisfaction. + +Seventy-five guldens to account. It atoned a little for the loss of the +Christ. + + + + +III + + +The large drawing-room was vacant. The blinds had been drawn to shut out +the glare, and a soft coolness filled the room. In the dim light of +half-opened shutters the massive furniture loomed large and dark, and +from the wall huge paintings looked down mistily. Gilt frames gleamed +vaguely in the cool gloom. Above the fireplace hung a large canvas, and +out of its depths sombre, waiting eyes looked down upon the vacant room. + +The door opened. An old woman had entered. She held in her hand a stout +cane. She walked stiffly across to the window and threw back a shutter. +The window opened into the soft greenness of a Munich garden. She stood +for a minute looking into it. Then she came over to the fireplace and +looked up to the pictured face. Her head nodded slowly. + +"It must be," she muttered, "it must be. No one else could have done it. +But four hundred years!"--she sighed softly. "Who can tell?" + +Her glance wandered with a dissatisfied air to the other canvases. "I +would give them all--all of them--twice over--to know--" She spoke under +her breath as she hobbled stiffly to a huge chair. + +The door swung softly back and forth behind a young girl who had +entered. She came in lightly, looking down at a packet of papers in her +hand. + +The old woman started forward. + +"What have ye found?" she demanded. She was leaning on the stout cane. +She peered out of her cavernous eyes. + +The girl crossed to the window and seated herself in the green light. +Shadows of a climbing vine fell on her hair and shoulders as she bent +over the papers in her hand. She opened one of them and ran her eye over +it before she spoke. + +"They were in the north room," she said slowly. "In the big +_escritoire_--that big, clumsy one--I've looked there before, but I +never found them. I've been trying all day to make them out." + +"What are they?" demanded the old woman. + +"Papers, grandmamma," returned the girl absently; "letters and a sort of +journal." Her eyes were on the closely written page. + +"Read it," said the old woman sharply. + +"I can't read it, grandmamma." She shook back the soft curls with a +little sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny--some of the words. And the +writing is blurred and yellow. Look." She held up the open sheet. + +The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work on it," she said brusquely. + +"I have, grandmamma." + +"Well--what did ye find?" + +"It's a man--Will--Willi"--she turned to the bottom of the last +page--"Willibald! That's it." She laughed softly. "Willibald Pirkheimer. +Who was he?" she asked. + +"One of your ancestors." The old mouth waited grimly. + +"One of mamma's?" + +"Your father's." + +"He must have been a nice man," said the girl slowly. "But some of it is +rather--queer." + +The old woman leaned forward with a quick gesture. She straightened +herself. "Nonsense!" she muttered. "Read it," she said aloud. + +"This is written to Albrecht Dürer," said the girl, studying it, "in +Italy." + +The old woman reached out a knotted hand. "Give it to me," she said. + +The girl came across and laid it in her hand. The knotted fingers +smoothed it. The old eyes were on the picture above the mantel. "Will it +tell?" she muttered. + +"There are others, grandmamma." The girl held up the packet in her hand. + +"What have ye made out?" The old hand closed upon them. + +"He was Dürer's friend," said the girl. "There are letters to him--five +or six. And he tells about a picture--in the journal--a picture Albrecht +Dürer gave to him." She glanced down at the wrinkled, working face. "It +was unsigned, grandmamma--and it was the head of the Saviour." + +The old woman's throat moved loosely. Her hands grasped the stout cane. + +With a half sigh, she rose to her feet and tottered across the room. +"Fool--fool--" she muttered, looking up to the mystical, waiting face. +"To leave no mark--no sign--but that!" She shook the yellow papers in +her hand. + +A question shot into the old eyes. She held out the papers. + +"What was it dated, Marie?--that place in the journal--look and see." + +The girl took the papers and moved again to the window. She opened one +and smoothed it thoughtfully, running her eye along the page. She shook +her head slowly. "There is no date, grandmamma," she said. "But it must +be after Dürer's death. He speaks of Frau Dürer"--a smile shaded her +lips--"he doesn't like her very well, I think. When did Dürer die, +grandmamma?" She looked up from the paper. + +"April 6, 1528," said the old woman promptly. + +The girl's eyes grew round and misty. "Four hundred years ago--almost," +she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her +hand. + +"It is very old," she said. + +The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. "Take good +care of them," she croaked; "they may tell it to us yet." + +She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door. + +A wooden butler was bowing himself to the floor. "The Herr Professor +Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer," he announced grandly. + +A dapper young man with trim mustaches and spotless boots advanced into +the room. + +The girl by the window swayed a breath. The clear color had mounted in +her cheek. + +The old woman waited, immovable. Her hands were clasped above the stout +cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed the advancing figure. + +At two yards' distance it paused. The heels came together with a swift +click. He bowed in military salute. + +The old woman achieved a stiff courtesy and waited. The dim eyes peered +at him shrewdly. + +"I have the honor to pay my respects to the Baroness von Herkomer," said +the young man, with deep politeness. + +The baroness assented gruffly. She seated herself on a large divan, +facing the picture, and motioned with her knotted hand to the seat +beside her. + +The young man accepted it deferentially. His eyes were on a bowed head, +framed in shadows and leaves across the room. + +"I trust Fräulein Marie is well?" he said promptly. + +"Marie----" + +The girl started vaguely. + +"Come and greet the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer." + +She rose lightly from her place and came across the room. A soft curl, +blown by the wind, drifted across her flushes as she came. + +The young man sprang to his feet. His heels clicked again as he bent low +before her. + +She descended in a shy courtesy and glanced inquiringly at her +grandmother. + +The old woman nodded curtly. "Go on with your papers," she said. + +The girl turned again to the green window. Her head bowed itself above +the papers. + +The young man's eyes followed them. He turned to the old woman beside +him. "Is it something about--the picture?" he asked. + +She nodded sharply. "Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said, +"ancestor of the von Herkomers--sixteenth century. He was a friend of +Dürer's." Her lips closed crisply on the words. + +He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will +furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly. + +She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture. + +"You have one Dürer." He motioned toward a small canvas. "Is it not +enough?" + +Her eyes turned to it and flashed in disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!" +She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as a copy!" + +"It is signed." + +She glanced at it again. There was shrewd intolerance in the old eyes. +"Do you think I cannot tell?" she said grimly. "I know the work of +Albrecht Dürer, length and breadth, line for line. You say he painted +that!" She pointed a swift finger at the picture across the room. "Have +ye looked at Lot's legs?" Her laugh cackled softly. + +The young man smiled under his mustaches. + +The baroness had turned again to the picture over the fireplace. "But +_that_--" she murmured softly. "It is signed in every line--in the eyes, +in the painting of the hair, in the sweep from brow to chin. It will yet +be found," she said under her breath. "It shall be found." + +He looked at her, smiling. Then he raised his eyes politely to the +picture. A slow look formed behind the smile. He half started, gazing +intently at the deep, painted canvas. His glance strayed for a second to +the green window, and back again to the picture. + +The old baroness roused herself with a sigh. She turned toward him. +"Your dissertation has brought you honor, they tell me," she said, +looking at him critically. + +He acknowledged the remark with a bow. "It is nothing," he replied +indifferently. "Only a step toward molecules and atoms." + +The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't understand chemical jargon." Her +tone was dry. "I understand you are going to be famous." + +The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture +above the fireplace. "What would you give to know"--he nodded toward +it--"that it is a genuine Dürer?" + +The shrewd eyes darted at him. + +The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless. + +"Give! I would give"--her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of +canvas and gilt and tapestry--"I would give all, everything in the +room"--she raised a knotted hand toward the picture--"to know that +Albrecht Dürer's monogram belongs there." The pointing finger trembled a +little. + +He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great +room. "Everything in this room," he said slowly. "That means--" He +paused, glancing toward the window. + +The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor. +She was leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and +nodded, out of reach. + +He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her +chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek. + +The eyes watching her glowed softly. "Everything in this room--" He +spoke very low. "The one with the rose?" + +The old face turned to him with a look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot +to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. The jaws came together with a +snap. She nodded to him shrewdly. + +The young man rose to his feet. The cynical smile had left his face. It +was intent and earnest. He looked up for a moment to the picture, and +then down at the wrinkled, eager face. + +"To-morrow, at this time, you shall know," he said gravely. + +The old eyes followed him, half in doubt, half in hope. They pierced the +heavy door as it swung shut behind him. + +The stiff, dapper figure had crossed the hall. The outer door clanged. + +Against the green window, within, the soft curls and gentle, questioning +eyes of the Fräulein Marie waited. As the door clanged, a rose was laid +lightly to her lips and dropped softly into the greenness below. + + + + +IV + + +At a quarter to ten the next morning a closed carriage drew up before +the heavy gate. A dapper figure pushed open the door and leaped out. It +entered the big gateway, crossed a green garden and was ushered into the +presence of the Baroness von Herkomer. + +She stood beneath the picture, her eyebrows bent, her lips drawn, and +her hands resting on the stout cane. + +"Will you come with me?" he asked deferentially. + +"Where to?" + +He hesitated. "You will see. I cannot tell you--now. But I need +you--with the picture." He motioned toward it. + +She eyed him grimly for a second. Then she touched a bell. + +The wooden butler appeared. "Send Wilhelm," she commanded. + +Half an hour later the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled +figure into the closed carriage that stood before the gate. A huge, +oblong package rested against a lamp-post beside him, and near it stood +the Fräulein Marie, rosy and shy. The young man turned to her with a +swift gesture. + +"Come," he said. + +He placed her beside her grandmother, and watched carefully while the +heavy parcel was lifted to the top of the carriage. With an injunction +to the driver for its safety, he turned to spring into the carriage. + +The voice of the baroness, from muffled folds, arrested him. + +"You will ride outside with the picture," it said. "I do not trust it to +a driver." + +With a bow he slammed the carriage door and mounted the box. In another +minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly +through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy +parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders. + +From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the +flying streets--a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless +smile. + +"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old woman. "Does he think any one at the +Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Dürer than Henriette von Herkomer?" +She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her. + +Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the flying carriage--on past the New +Pinakothek. An old face peered out upon the marble walls, wistful and +suspicious. A mass of buildings loomed in view. + +"The university," she muttered under her breath. "Some upstart Herr +Professor--to tell _me_ of Albrecht Dürer! Fool--fool!" She croaked +softly in her throat. + +"The Herr Doctor is a learned man, grandmamma--and a gentleman!" said a +soft voice beside her. + +"A gentleman can be a fool!" returned the old woman tartly. "What +building is this?" + +The carriage had stopped before a low, square doorway. + +"It is the chemistry laboratory, grandmamma," said the girl timidly. + +The old woman leaned forward, gray with rage, pulling at the +closed door. "Chemistry lab--" Her breath came in pants. "He +will--destroy--burn--melt it!" Four men lifted down the huge parcel from +the carriage and turned toward the stone door. "Stop!" she gestured +wildly to them. + +The door flew open. The young scientist stood before her, bowing and +smiling. She shook a knotted finger at him. "Stop those men!" she cried +sternly. + +At a gesture the men waited. She descended from the carriage, shaking +and suspicious, her cane tapping the pavement before her. The Fräulein +Marie leaped lightly down after her. Her hand had rested for a moment on +the young man's sleeve. A white rose trembled in the fingers. His face +glowed. + +"Is your Highness ready?" he asked. He had moved to the old woman's +side. + +She was standing, one hand on the wrapped parcel, the other on her stout +cane, peering suspiciously ahead. + +"Is your Highness ready?" he repeated. + +"Go on," she said briefly. + +Four men were in the hall when they entered--the director of the Old +Pinakothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the president of the +university, and a young man with a scared, helpful face, who proved to +be a laboratory assistant. + +"They are your witnesses," murmured the young man in her ear. + +She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on the precious parcel. Swiftly the +wrappings were undone, and the picture lifted to a huge easel across the +room. The light fell full upon it. + +The witnesses moved forward in a body, silent. The old face watching +them relaxed. She smiled grimly. + +"Is it a Dürer?" she demanded. She was standing behind them. + +They started, looking at her doubtfully. The artist shrugged his +shoulders. He stepped back a little. The director shook his head with a +sigh. "Who can tell?" he said softly. "The marks----" + +The baroness's eyes glowed dangerously. "I did not suppose you could +tell," she said curtly. + +The young scientist interposed. "It is a case for science," he said +quickly. "You shall see--the Roentgen rays will tell. The +shutters--Berthold." + +The assistant closed them, one by one, the heavy wooden shutters. A last +block of light rested on the shadowy picture. A last shutter swung into +place. They waited--in darkness. Some one breathed quickly, with soft, +panting breath. Slowly a light emerged through the dark. The great +picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till it +shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply and slowly in the bluish patina, +at the edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder of the Christ, a +glimmer of shadow traced itself, faintly and unmistakably. + +Confused murmurs ran through the darkness--the voice of the director--a +woman's breath. + +"Ready, Berthold." It was the voice of the Herr Doctor. + +There was a little hiss, a blinding flash of light, the click of a +camera, and blackness again. + +A shutter flew open. + +In the square of light an old woman groped toward the picture. Her +knotted hands were lifted to it. + +Close at hand, a camera tucked under his arm, the laboratory assistant +stood--on his round, practical face the happy look of successful +experiment. + +A little distance away the Herr Professor Doctor moved quickly. The one +with the rose looked up. + +High above them all--on the great easel, struck by a ray of light from +the shutter--the Dürer Face of Sorrow--out of its four hundred +years--looked forth and waited in the modern world. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Unfinished Portraits, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + +***** This file should be named 30562-8.txt or 30562-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/6/30562/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Unfinished Portraits + Stories of Musicians and Artists + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: November 29, 2009 [EBook #30562] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img src="images/cover-thumb.jpg" + width="320" height="400" + alt="Unfinished Portraits" + title="Front Cover" /> +</a> +</div> +<hr /> + +<h1>UNFINISHED PORTRAITS</h1> + +<hr /> + +<p class="titles_large">BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR</p> + + +<ul class="list"> +<li>KATE WETHERILL</li> +<li>A PILLAR OF SALT</li> +<li>THE SON OF A FIDDLER</li> +<li><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4634">UNCLE WILLIAM</a></li> +<li>SIMEON TETLOW'S SHADOW</li> +<li>HAPPY ISLAND</li> +<li><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4714">MR. ACHILLES</a></li> +<li>THE TASTE OF APPLES</li> +<li>THE WOMAN IN THE ALCOVE</li> +<li>AUNT JANE</li> +<li>THE IBSEN SECRET</li> +<li>THE SYMPHONY PLAY</li> +</ul> + +<hr /> + +<div class="center"> +<a href="images/frontis.jpg"> +<img src="images/frontis-thumb.jpg" + width="262" height="400" + alt="The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed." + title="The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed." /> +</a> +<p class="caption"><i>The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed.</i> +Page <a href="#Page_253">253</a></p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h1>UNFINISHED PORTRAITS</h1> + +<p class="titles_large">STORIES OF MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS</p> +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="titles_large"><i>BY</i><br /> +<i>JENNETTE LEE</i></p> +<p><br /></p> + +<ul class="title"> +<li><i>Schubert</i><span class="ralign"><i>Titian</i></span></li> +<li><i>Chopin</i><span class="ralign"><i>Giorgione</i></span></li> +<li><i>Bach</i><span class="ralign"><i>Leonardo</i></span></li> +<li class="center"><i>Albrecht Dürer</i></li> +</ul> +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="titles"><i>NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS</i><br /> + 1916</p> +<hr /> + +<p class="titles_small"><i>Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons<br /> + Published September, 1916</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="titles_small">TO<br /> +<br /> +<span class="gesp">GERALD STANLEY LEE</span><br /> +</p> +<p class="titles_x-small">AND +<br /> +<br /> +"THE GREAT ROAD THAT LEADS<br /> +FROM THE SEEN TO THE UNSEEN"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="titles_large"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</p> + + +<ul class="TOC"> +<li class="TOC"><i>There Was in Florence a Lady</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></span></li> +<li class="TOC"><i>Thumbs and Fugues</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></span></li> +<li class="TOC"><i>A Window of Music</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></span></li> +<li class="TOC"><i>Frederic Chopin—A Record</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></span></li> +<li class="TOC"><i>The Man With the Glove</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></span></li> +<li class="TOC"><i>The Lost Monogram</i> + <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></span></li> +</ul> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1" href="#Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THERE WAS IN FLORENCE A LADY</h2> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2" href="#Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3" href="#Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>The soft wind of an Italian spring stirred among the leaves outside. The +windows of the studio, left open to the morning air, were carefully +shaded. The scent of mulberry blossoms drifted in. The chair on the +model-stand, adjusted to catch the light, was screened from the glare; +and the light falling on the rich drapery flung across its back brought +out a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped flowers near by, and dark +gleams of old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty; but the two +men in the studio were facing it, as if a presence were still there.</p> + +<p>The painter, sketching idly on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4" href="#Page_4">[4]</a></span> edge of his drawing-board, leaned +back to survey the child's head that developed under his pencil. "She +will not come this morning, then?" he asked almost indifferently.</p> + +<p>The older man shook his head. "She said not. She may change her mind."</p> + +<p>The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing in the face of the +other, and he devoted himself anew to the child's head. "It does not +matter," he said. "I can work on the background—if I feel like working +at all," he added, after a moment's pause.</p> + +<p>The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pair of long +riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glanced toward the easel +standing in front of the painter, a little to the left. "It is barbarous +that you have had to waste so much time!" he broke out. "How long<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5" href="#Page_5">[5]</a></span> is +it? Two—no, three years last Christmas time since you began. And there +it stands." The figure on the easel, erect, tranquil, in the old chair, +seemed to half shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinished +face. He looked at it severely. The severity changed to something else. +"And it is so perfect—damnably perfect," he said irritably.</p> + +<p>The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement so slight +might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. "You are off for the +day?" he asked, glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a table by the +door.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far as Pistoia. Going to see the new +altarpiece." He took up the hat and whip. He waited, fingering them +indecisively. "She seems to me more fickle than ever, this last month or +two."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6" href="#Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I see that she is restless." The painter spoke in a low tone, half +hesitating. "I have wondered whether—I had hoped that the Bambino"—he +touched the figure lightly with his foot—"might not be needed."</p> + +<p>The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell. "No, +no such good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only caprice."</p> + +<p>The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appeared in the opening. +"Castino wishes me to say that the musicians wait," said the youth.</p> + +<p>The painter rose and came toward him, a smile of pleasure on his face. +"Tell them that there will be no sitting to-day, Salai," he said, laying +his hand, half in greeting, half in caress, on the youth's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and withdrew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7" href="#Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> + +<p>The painter turned again to the older man. "It was a happy thought of +yours, Zano—the music. She delights in it. I almost caught, one day +last week, while they were playing, that curve about the lips."</p> + +<p>They stood for a moment in silence, looking toward the portrait. The +memory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker across the shaded light.</p> + +<p>"Well, I am off." The man held out his hand.</p> + +<p>The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in his supple +fingers and placed it to his lips. "A safe journey to you, Signor," he +said, in playful formality.</p> + +<p>"And a safe return, to find our Lady Lisa in better temper," laughed the +other. The laugh passed behind the draperies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8" href="#Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> + +<p>The artist remained standing, his eyes resting absently on the rich +colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friend had +disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He had the look of a man +absorbed in a problem, who has come upon an unexpected complication.</p> + +<p>When the chess-board is a Florentine palace, and the pieces are +fifteenth-century human beings, such complications are likely to occur. +The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that she was not carved +of wood or ivory. But for three years the situation had remained the +same—the husband unobservant, the lady capricious and wilful. She had +shown the artist more kindness than he cared to recall. That was months +ago. Of late he had found scant favor in her sight.... It was better so.</p> + +<p>He crossed to the easel, and stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9" href="#Page_9">[9]</a></span> looking down at it. The quiet figure +on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride and dissatisfaction. He gazed +at it bitterly. Three years—but an eternal woman. Some day he should +catch the secret of her smile and fix it there. The world would not +forget her—or him. He should not go down to posterity as the builder of +a canal! The great picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of +fading. The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay—no +one to pay for the casting. But this picture——For months—with its +rippling light of under sea, its soft dreamy background, and in the +foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished but the Child upon +her arm, the smile of light in her eyes.</p> + +<p>The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband's, to paint +her as Madonna. She had refused to touch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10" href="#Page_10">[10]</a></span> the Bambino—sometimes +petulantly, sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny figure lay always on the +studio floor, dusty and disarranged. The artist picked it up. It was an +absurd little wooden face in the lace cap. He straightened the velvet +mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand +and placed the tiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly +against the arm.</p> + +<p>A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneeling in front of +the Bambino.</p> + +<p>"I see that you have supplied my place, Sir Painter," said a mocking +voice.</p> + +<p>He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stood there, +smiling, scornful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy stuff, a gold +thimble-cap on her finger. "It would not make a bad picture," she said +tranquilly, "you and the Bambino."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11" href="#Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> + +<p>His face lighted up. "You have come!" He hastened toward her with +outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes, +I dared not trust you. You might paint in the Bambino face instead of +mine, by mistake."</p> + +<p>She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. The Bambino +slipped meekly through the arm to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Zano told me"—he began.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he would never go. I +really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm." She glanced about +the shaded room. "You manage it well," she said approvingly. "It is by +far the coolest place in the palace."</p> + +<p>"You will be going to the mountains soon?" He saw that she was talking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12" href="#Page_12">[12]</a></span> +lightly to cover herself, and fell in with her mood. He watched her as +he arranged the easel and prepared his colors. Once he stopped and +sketched rapidly for a minute on the small drawing-board.</p> + +<p>She looked inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Only an eyebrow," he explained.</p> + +<p>She smiled serenely. "You should make a collection of those eyebrows. +They must mount into the hundreds by this time. You could label them +'Characters of the Lady Lisa.'"</p> + +<p>"The Souls of Lady Lisa."</p> + +<p>The lady turned her head aside. "Your distinctions are too subtle," she +said. Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting disgracefully on its wooden +head. "Poor little figurine," she murmured, reaching a slender hand to +draw it up. She straightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to +her lap, and lay there. Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13" href="#Page_13">[13]</a></span> hands were idle, her eyes looking far into +space.</p> + +<p>The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. "Sit still," he said, +almost harshly.</p> + +<p>She gave a quick, startled look. She glanced at the rigid little figure. +She raised it for a minute. Her face grew inscrutable. Would she laugh +or cry? He worked with hasty, snatched glances. Such a moment would not +come again. A flitting crash startled him from the canvas. He looked up. +The Bambino lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, scattered with +fragments of a rare Venetian glass. She sat erect and imperious, looking +with scorn at the wreck. Two great tears welled. They overflowed. The +floods pressed behind them. She dropped her face in her hands. Before he +could reach her she had darted from the chair. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14" href="#Page_14">[14]</a></span> mask of scorn was +gone. She fled from him, from herself, blindly, stopping only when the +wall of the studio intervened. She stood with her face buried in the +drapery, her shoulders wrenched with sobs.</p> + +<p>He approached her. He waited. The Bambino lay with its wooden face +staring at the ceiling. It was a crisis for them all. The next move +would determine everything. He must not risk too much, again. The +picture—art—hung on her sobs. Lover—artist? He paused a second too +long.</p> + +<p>She turned toward him slowly, serenely. Her glance fell across him, +level and tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay in smiling drops on +her face. The softened scorn played across it. "Shall we finish the +sitting?" she asked, in a conventional voice.</p> + +<p>He took up his brush uncertainly. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15" href="#Page_15">[15]</a></span> seated herself, gathering up the +scattered work. For a few moments she sewed rapidly. Then the soft +fabric fell to her lap. She sat looking before her, unconscious, except +that her glance seemed to rest now and then on the fallen figure in its +fragments of glass.</p> + +<p>For two hours he worked feverishly, painting with swiftest skill and +power. At times he caught his breath at the revelation in the face. He +was too alert to be human. The artist forgot the woman. Faithfully, line +by line, he laid bare her heart. She sat unmoved. When at last, from +sheer weariness, the brush dropped from his hand, she stepped from the +model-stand, and stood at his side. She looked at the canvas +attentively. The inscrutable look of the painted face seemed but a faint +reflex of the living one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16" href="#Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You have succeeded well," she said at last. "We will omit the Bambino."</p> + +<p>She moved slowly, graciously, toward the door, gathering the fragile +sewing as she went. He started toward her—suddenly conscious of her +power—a man again. A parting of the draperies arrested them. It was +Salai, his face agitated, looking from the lady to the painter, +inarticulate.</p> + +<p>"The Signor"—he gasped—"his horse—they bring him—dead."</p> + +<p>She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai. +Await your master's commands in the hall below."</p> + +<p>She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. "I trust that you +will make all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, in removing from the +palace. The apartments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. They will +come to honor the dead."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17" href="#Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>He stood for a moment stupefied, aghast at her control of practical, +feminine detail; then moved toward her. "Lisa——"</p> + +<p>She motioned toward the easel. "Payment for the picture will be sent you +soon."</p> + +<p>"The picture goes with me. It is not finished."</p> + +<p>"It is well." She bowed mockingly. The little door swung noiselessly +behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. It was looking sideways +at the fallen Bambino amid the shattered fragments on the floor.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18" href="#Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>It was the French monarch. He fluttered restlessly about the studio, +urbane, enthusiastic. He paused to finger some ingenious toy, to praise +some drawing or bit of sunlit color that caught his fancy. The painter, +smiling at the frank enthusiasm, followed leisurely from room to room. +The wandering Milanese villa was a treasure house. Bits of marble and +clay, curious mechanical contrivances, winged creatures, bats and +creeping things mingled with the canvases. Color and line ran riot on +the walls. A few finished pieces had been placed on easels, in +convenient light, for the royal inspection. Each of these, in turn, the +volatile monarch had exalted. He had declared that everything in the +villa, including the gifted owner, must return with him to France.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19" href="#Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That is the place for men like you!" he exclaimed, standing before a +small, exquisitely finished Madonna. "What do these Milanese know of +art? Or the Florentines, for that matter? Your 'Last Supper'—I saw it +last week. It is a blur. Would that the sainted Louis might have taken +it bodily, stone by stone, to our France, as he longed to do. You will +see; the mere copy has more honor with us than the original here. Come +with us," he added persuasively, laying his hand on the painter's shabby +sleeve.</p> + +<p>The painter looked down from his height on the royal suitor. "You do me +too much honor, sire. I am an old man."</p> + +<p>"You are Leonardo da Vinci," said the other stoutly, "the painter of +these pictures. I shall carry them all away, and you will have to +follow," laughed the monarch. "I will not leave one."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20" href="#Page_20">[20]</a></span> He rummaged gayly +in the unfinished débris, bringing out with each turn some new theme of +delight.</p> + +<p>The painter stood by, waiting, alert, a trifle uneasy, it might seem. +"And now, sire, shall we see the view from the little western turret?"</p> + +<p>"One moment. Ah, what have we here?" He turned the canvas to the light. +The figure against the quaint landscape looked out with level, smiling +glance. He fell upon his knees before it. "Ah, marvellous, marvellous!" +he murmured in naïve delight. He remained long before it, absorbed, +forgetful. At last he rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an +easel. "Is she yet alive?" he demanded, turning to the painter.</p> + +<p>"She lives in Florence, sire."</p> + +<p>"And her name?"</p> + +<p>"Signora Lisa della Gioconda."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21" href="#Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Her husband? It matters not."</p> + +<p>"Dead these ten years."</p> + +<p>"And children?"</p> + +<p>"A boy. Born shortly after the husband's death," he added, after a +slight pause. "Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at +sunset."</p> + +<p>"Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original—We shall +see—we shall see."</p> + +<p>"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished."</p> + +<p>"Unfinished?" He stared at it anew. "Impossible. It is perfect."</p> + +<p>"There was to be a child."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes. The portrait +returned the royal look in kind. He broke into a light laugh. "You did +well to omit the child," he said. "Come, we will see the famous sunset +now." He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22" href="#Page_22">[22]</a></span> turned to the regal figure on the easel. "Adieu, Mona Lisa. I +come for you again." He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered +out. The mocking, sidelong glance followed him.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23" href="#Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French +window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line +of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the +hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the +room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for +sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture—a woman seated in a +rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.</p> + +<p>The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A +figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow. +It waited.</p> + +<p>"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24" href="#Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + +<p>Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire.</p> + +<p>"What does he say of us to-day?"</p> + +<p>The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always +croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, +his face in the shadow still.</p> + +<p>The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile +has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco."</p> + +<p>The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped +a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull +silvery glimmer over it.</p> + +<p>"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's. +I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not +been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25" href="#Page_25">[25]</a></span> lonely. Friends are faithful"—he pressed the youth's warm hand. +"His Majesty?"—the voice ended with a question.</p> + +<p>"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how +bright it grows."</p> + +<p>The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise +physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes——"</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will +be few bequests. My pictures—they are mine no longer. Should a painter +barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They +are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. +He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could +not live without her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26" href="#Page_26">[26]</a></span> When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles. +He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking +long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be +the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on +the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said +softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He +gave you back to me. You will be his—his and his children's. I have no +child——At least.... Ah, well—Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona +will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has +rested on my work. Crumbling—fading—nothing finished. I planned so +much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished. +My manuscripts—do with them what you will. I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27" href="#Page_27">[27]</a></span> not even write like +other men—this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling +across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they +fluttered from his fingers. "A man is poor who has few wants. Then I +have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty +name."</p> + +<p>Silence fell between them.</p> + +<p>"There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is +rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her—this +ring—" He slipped it from his finger—a heavy stone, deep green, with +translucent lights. "It was my father's crest. He gave it to my +mother—not his wife—a woman—faithful. She put it on my finger when +she died—a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ... she +has a son.... Tell her...." The voice fell hushed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28" href="#Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>The young man waited, with bowed head. He looked up. He started quickly, +and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded the hands across the quiet +breast. He passed swiftly from the silent chamber, down to the +courtyard, out on the King's highway, mounted and fleet.</p> + +<p>The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gay chanson. His +retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi saluted and drew rein. +He spoke a word in the monarch's ear. The two men stood with uncovered +heads. They looked toward the western windows. The gay cavalcade halted +in the glow of light. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed +in the crimson flood. Within the room, above the gleaming coals, a woman +of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze upon an old man's face.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29" href="#Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THUMBS AND FUGUES</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30" href="#Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31" href="#Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>"Ready, father—ready!" shouted the small boy. He was standing on the +top step of a flight of stairs leading to the organ-loft of the +Hofchapel, peering in. His round, stolid face and short, square legs +gave no hint of the excitement that piped in his shrill voice.</p> + +<p>The man at the organ looked leisurely around, nodding his big head and +smiling. "Ja, ja, S'bastian—ja," he said placidly. His fingers played +slowly on.</p> + +<p>The boy mounted the steps to the organ and rubbed his cheek softly +against the coat sleeve that reached out to the keys. The man smiled +again a big, floating smile, and his hands came to rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32" href="#Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy looked up wistfully. "They'll all get there before we do," he +said quickly. "Come!"</p> + +<p>The man looked down absently and kindly. "Nein, S'bastian." He patted +the round head beside him. "There is no need that we should hurry."</p> + +<p>They passed out of the chapel, across the courtyard and into the open +road. For half an hour they trudged on in silence, their broad backs +swinging from side to side in the morning light. Across the man's back +was slung a large violin, in its bag; and across the back of the boy +hung a violin like that of the father, only shorter and fatter and +squarer, and on his head was a huge woollen cap. He took it off and +wiped the perspiration from his white forehead.</p> + +<p>The man looked down at him once more and halted. "Now, but we will rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33" href="#Page_33">[33]</a></span> +here," he said gently. He removed the violin-bag carefully from his back +and threw himself on the ground and took from his pocket a great pipe.</p> + +<p>With a little sigh the boy sat down beside him.</p> + +<p>The man nodded good-naturedly. "Ja, that is right." He blew a puff of +smoke toward the morning clouds; "the Bachs do not hurry, my child—no +more does the sun."</p> + +<p>The boy smiled proudly. He looked up toward the ball of fire sailing +above them and a change came over his face. "We might miss the choral," +he said wistfully. "They won't wait, will they?"</p> + +<p>The big man shook his head. "We shall not be late. There is my clock." +He nodded toward the golden sun. "And I have yet another here," he +added, placing a comfortable hand on his big stomach.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34" href="#Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy laughed softly and lay quiet.</p> + +<p>The man opened his lips and blew a wreath of smoke.</p> + +<p>"There will be more than a hundred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you must +play what I have taught you—not too slow and not too fast." He looked +down at the boy's fat fingers. "Play like a true Bach and no other," he +added.</p> + +<p>The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Christoph be there?" he asked after a pause.</p> + +<p>"Ja."</p> + +<p>"And Uncle Heinrich?"</p> + +<p>"Ja, ja!"</p> + +<p>The boy gave a quick sigh of contentment.</p> + +<p>His father was looking at him shrewdly. "But it is not Uncle Heinrich +that will be making a player of you, and it is not Uncle Christoph. It +is only Johann<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35" href="#Page_35">[35]</a></span> Sebastian Bach that can make himself a player," he said +sternly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, father," replied the boy absently. His eyes were following the +clouds.</p> + +<p>The man blew great puffs of smoke toward them. "It is more than a +hundred and twenty years ago that we came from Hungary," he said +proudly.</p> + +<p>The boy nestled toward him. "Tell me about it." He had heard the story +many times.</p> + +<p>"Ja, ja," said the man musingly.... "He was my great-grandfather, that +man—Veit Bach—and your great-great-grandfather."</p> + +<p>The boy nodded.</p> + +<p>"And he was a miller——"</p> + +<p>He dropped into silence, and a little brook that ran over the stones +near by babbled as it went.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36" href="#Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy raised his eyes. "And he had a lute," he prompted softly.</p> + +<p>"Ja, he had a lute—and while the mill-wheel turned, he played the +lute—sweet, true notes and tunes he played—in that old mill."</p> + +<p>The boy smiled contentedly.</p> + +<p>"And now we be a hundred Bachs. We make music for all Germany. Come!" He +sprang to his feet. "We will go to the festival, the great Bach +festival. You, my little son, shall play like a true Bach."</p> + +<p>As they walked along the road he hummed contentedly to himself, speaking +now and then a word to the boy. "What makes one Bach great, makes all. +Remember, my child, Reinken is great—but he is only one; and Bohm and +Buxtehude, Pachelbel. But we are many—all Bachs—all great." He hummed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37" href="#Page_37">[37]</a></span> +gayly a few bars of the choral and stopped, listening.</p> + +<p>The boy turned his face back over the road. "They are coming," he said +softly.</p> + +<p>"Ja, they are coming."</p> + +<p>The next moment a heavy cart came in sight. It was laden to the brim +with Bachs and music; some laughing and some singing and some +playing—on fiddles or flutes or horns—beaming with broad faces.</p> + +<p>The man caught up Sebastian by the arm and jumped on to the tail-board +of the cart. And thus—enveloped in a cloud of dust, surrounded by the +laughter of fun-loving men and youths—the boy came into Erfurt, to the +great festival of all the Bachs.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38" href="#Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>"Sh-h! It is Heinrich! Listen to him—to Heinrich!" There were nods and +smiles and soft thudding of mugs, and turning of broad faces toward the +other end of the enclosure, as a small figure mounted the platform.</p> + +<p>He was a tiny man, unlike the others; but he carried himself with a +gentle pomposity, and he faced the gathering with a proud gesture, +holding up his hand to enjoin silence. After a few muttering rumbles +they subsided.</p> + +<p>Sebastian, sitting between his father and a fat Bach, gulped with joy. +It was the great Heinrich—who composed chorals and fugues and gavottes +and—hush! Could it be that he was rebuking the Bachs—the great +Bachs!... Sebastian's ears cracked with the strain. He looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39" href="#Page_39">[39]</a></span> +helplessly at his father, who sat smiling into his empty beer-mug, and +at the fat Bach on the other side, who was gaping with open mouth at the +great Heinrich.</p> + +<p>Sebastian looked back to the platform.</p> + +<p>Heinrich's finger was uplifted at them sternly.... "It was Reinken who +said it. He of the Katherinenkirche has said it, in open festival, that +there is not a Bach in Germany that can play as he can play. Do you hear +that!" The little man stamped impatiently with his foot on the platform. +"He has called us flutists and lutists and 'cellists—" He stopped and +held up a small instrument that he carried in his hand—"Do you know +what this is?"</p> + +<p>A response of grunts and cheers came from the crowd.</p> + +<p>Sebastian stretched his neck to see. It was a kind of viol, small and +battered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40" href="#Page_40">[40]</a></span> and torn. Worn ribbons fluttered from the handle.</p> + +<p>The small man on the platform lifted it reverently to his chin. He ran +his fingers lightly along the broken strings. "You know the man who +played it," he said significantly, "old Veit Bach—" Cheers broke from +the crowd. He stopped them sternly. "Do you think if he were alive—if +Veit Bach were alive, would Reinken, of Hamburg, dare challenge him in +open festival?"</p> + +<p>Cries of "Nein, nein!" and "Ja, ja!" came back from the benches.</p> + +<p>"Ja, ja! Nein, nein!" snarled back the little man. "You know that he +would not. He had only this—" He held up the lute again. "Only this and +his mill. But he made the greatest music of his time. While you—thirty +of you this day at the best organs in Germany.... And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41" href="#Page_41">[41]</a></span> Reinken defies +you.... Reinken!" His lighted eye ran along the crowd. "Before the next +festival, shall there be one who will meet him?" There was no response. +The Bachs looked into their beer-mugs. The great Heinrich swept them +with his eagle glance. "Is there not one," he went on slowly, "who dares +promise, in the presence of the Bachs that before Reinken dies he will +meet him and outplay him?"</p> + +<p>The Bachs were silent. They knew Reinken.</p> + +<p>Sebastian, wedged between his father and the fat Bach, gulped mightily. +He struggled to get to his feet. But a hand at his coat-tails held him +fast. He looked up imploringly into his father's face—but the hand at +his coat-tails restrained him. "I will promise," he whispered, "I want +to promise."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42" href="#Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ja, ja, little son," whispered the father; and he and the fat Bach +exchanged smiles across the round head.</p> + +<p>Heinrich's glance swept the crowd once more.... "You will not promise? +Then let me tell you—" He raised his small hand impressively.</p> + +<p>"There shall come of the Bachs one so great that all others shall fade. +He only shall be known as Bach—he and his sons; and before him the name +of Reinken shall be as dust!" With a hiss upon the last word, he threw +open his arms. "Come!" he said, "take your instrument and play."</p> + +<p>Then fell upon the assembly a series of squeaks and gruntings and +tunings and twinges and groans and wails such as was never heard outside +a Bach festival. And little Sebastian, tugging at his violin, tuned and +squeaked and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43" href="#Page_43">[43]</a></span> grunted with the rest, oblivious to the taps that fell on +his small head from surrounding bows. And when at last the tuning was +done and there burst forth the wonderful new melody of the choral, +Sebastian's heart went dizzy with the joy of it. And Uncle Heinrich on +the platform, strutting proudly back and forth, conducting the +choral—his own choral—forgot his anger and forgot Reinken, and forgot +everything except the Bachs playing there before him—playing as only +the Bachs, the united Bachs, could play—in all Germany or in all the +world.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44" href="#Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>The two boys had come to a turn in the road, and stood looking back over +the way they had come. The younger of the two looked up wistfully to the +cherry-blossomed trees overhead. "It is hot, Sebastian!—Let us rest."</p> + +<p>With a smile the other boy threw himself on the grass. The large, flat +book that he carried under his arm fell to the ground beside him, and +his hand stole out and touched it. He had a wide, quiet face, with blue +eyes and a short nose, and lips that smiled dreamily to themselves. As +he lay looking up into the white blossoms that swayed and waited against +the clear blue of the sky, the lips curved in gentle content.</p> + +<p>His companion, who had thrown himself on the cool grass beside him, +watched<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45" href="#Page_45">[45]</a></span> him admiringly. His glance shifted and rested on the book that +lay on the grass. "What is it?—What is it, Sebastian?" he asked +timidly. He put out an inquisitive finger toward the book.</p> + +<p>Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let be," he said.</p> + +<p>The boy flushed. "I was not going to touch it."</p> + +<p>The other smiled, with his slow, generous eyes fixed on the boy's face. +"Thou art a good boy, Erdman!" ... "It is only thy fingers that itch to +know things." He patted them gently, where they lay on the grass beside +him.</p> + +<p>Erdman was still looking at the book. "Was it your brother's?" he asked +in a half whisper.</p> + +<p>"Christoph's?" Sebastian shook his head. "No, it is mine—my own."</p> + +<p>The soft wind was among the blossoms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46" href="#Page_46">[46]</a></span> overhead—they fell in petals, one +by one, upon the quiet figures.</p> + +<p>"Want to know 'bout it?" asked Sebastian, half turning to meet his +companion's eye.</p> + +<p>The boy nodded.</p> + +<p>"It's mine. I copied it, every note—six months it took me—from +Christoph's book."</p> + +<p>"Did he let you?"</p> + +<p>Sebastian shook his head, a grim, sweet smile curving the big mouth. +"Let me?—Christoph!"</p> + +<p>The boy crept nearer to him. "How did you do it?"</p> + +<p>"I stole it—carried it up to my room while the others were asleep—and +did it by the moon."</p> + +<p>"The moon?"</p> + +<p>The boy nodded, laughing. "Didst never hear of the moon, brave boy!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47" href="#Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> + +<p>Erdman smiled pettishly. "There isn't a moon—always," he said, after a +moment.</p> + +<p>"And that also is true," quoth the boy gravely. "But some time, late or +early, one gets a glimpse of her—if one lies awake to see," he added +softly.</p> + +<p>The other glanced again at the book. "Let me look at it," he pleaded.</p> + +<p>Sebastian smiled and reached over a hand to the book. "Don't touch. I'll +show it thee." He untied the strings and spread it on the ground, +throwing himself in front of it and resting his chin in his hands. +"Come," he said, "I'll show it thee."</p> + +<p>Erdman threw off his heavy cap and bent toward the book, with a little +gesture of wonder. "I heard about Christoph's book—a good many times," +he said softly.... "I didn't ever think I'd see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48" href="#Page_48">[48]</a></span> it." He reached out his +hand and touched the open page.</p> + +<p>"Nobody ever saw it," said Sebastian absently. He was humming to +himself. "Listen to this!" he said eagerly. He hummed a few bars. +"That's Buxtehude's—isn't it great!" His face went tumpty-tumpty with +the notes, and the blue eyes shone. "But this is the one I like +best—listen!" He turned over the pages rapidly. "Here it is. This is +Reinken's. 'By the waters of Babylon, by the waters, by the waters of +Babylon.'" He hummed the tune below his breath—and then louder and +fuller.... The clear, sweet soprano of the notes died away softly. "Some +day I shall play it," said Sebastian lingeringly. "Some day. See—here +is the place for the harps! And here are the great horns. Listen!" His +voice droned away at the bass and ran into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49" href="#Page_49">[49]</a></span> the swift high notes of the +treble. "Some day I shall play it," he repeated wistfully.</p> + +<p>Erdman's slow gaze was following the page. "I can't read so fast," he +said enviously.</p> + +<p>Sebastian smiled back. "I know it by heart—almost. When the moon was +behind the clouds I waited. I sang them over and over."</p> + +<p>"Very softly," said Erdman, as if seeing the picture of the boy and the +darkened room.</p> + +<p>"Very softly," assented Sebastian, "so that no one should hear. And now +I have them all!" He spoke exultingly. "And next month I shall see +Reinken.... I shall hear him play!"</p> + +<p>The other stared at him. "But Reinken is at Hamburg," he said at last.</p> + +<p>"And that, too, is so," said Sebastian smiling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50" href="#Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And we go to Lüneburg——"</p> + +<p>"And we go to Lüneburg!" repeated the boy, with a mocking lilt in his +voice. "And Lüneburg is twenty miles from Hamburg. Hadst thought of +that!" He laughed exultingly.</p> + +<p>The other shook his head. "I don't know what you mean," he said.</p> + +<p>Sebastian was fastening the big violin in place on his back. He looked +up under smiling brows, as he bent to draw the last strap. Then he +touched his sturdy legs with his hand and laughed. "I mean that these +are the horses to carry me to Hamburg and back many times. I shall hear +the great Reinken play!—And I, too, shall play!" he added proudly.</p> + +<p>"Do you never doubt, Sebastian?" asked the other thoughtfully, as they +moved on.</p> + +<p>"Doubt?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51" href="#Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Whether you will be a great musician?... Sometimes I see myself going +back—" He paused as if ashamed to have said so much.</p> + +<p>Sebastian shook his head. His blue eyes were following the clouds in the +spring day. "Sometimes I doubt whether I am among the elect," he said +slowly. "But never that I am to be a musician." His full lips puckered +dreamily, and his golden head nodded, keeping slow time. "By the +waters—" he broke out into singing. "Is it not wunderschön!" The blue +eyes turned with a smile. "It is wunderschön! Ach—wunderschön! Is it +not, Erdman?" He seemed to awake and laid his hand affectionately on the +boy's shoulder.</p> + +<p>The other nodded. "Yes, it is schön," he said wistfully.</p> + +<p>"Come, I will teach it to thee!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52" href="#Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + +<p>And the notes of Reinken's choral, "An den Wasserflüssen Babylon," +floated with a clear, fresh sound on the spring morning air, two hundred +years ago, and more, as two charity pupils walked along the road to +Lüneburg.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53" href="#Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>A tall man with keen eyes and a round stomach stood in the shadow of the +Johanneskirche, lost in thought and humming to himself. Now and then he +took off his glasses and rubbed them vigorously, and put them on again +to peer absently down the street.</p> + +<p>A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue uniform of the Michaelsschule, +rounded the corner, puffing heavily.</p> + +<p>"Ach, Kerlman!" The tall man started forward with a stride. "You are +late."</p> + +<p>The other nodded imperturbably.</p> + +<p>"Ja, I am late. Those boys—I cannot make to hurry." He spoke as if +assigning sufficient reason and wiped his brow.</p> + +<p>A twinkle came into the keen eyes. "And one of them you have lost +to-day,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54" href="#Page_54">[54]</a></span> he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle toward the heavy +church that rose behind them.</p> + +<p>The other looked quickly around.</p> + +<p>"That S'bastian—was he here?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"In there," replied the tall man, smiling. "No, no!" he laid his hand on +his companion's arm as he started forward. "Let be—let be!... We must +help him—that boy. You have not heard him play my organ. Wait!" He held +up his hand.... Music was stealing from the gloomy shadows of the +church.</p> + +<p>"Come in," said the master. He pushed open a low door and they entered +the great church. Far up in the loft, struck by a shaft of light from a +gable in the roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in sound. His face was +bent to the keys as his hands hovered and paused over them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55" href="#Page_55">[55]</a></span> and drew +forth the strangely sweet sounds that filled the great building.</p> + +<p>The two musicians below stood looking up, their big heads nodding +time.... Suddenly they paused and looked at each other with questioning +glance. The music was quickening and broadening with a clear, glad reach +of sound, and underneath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that bound the +notes together and vibrated through them.</p> + +<p>"How was he doing that?" whispered the small man excitedly. "You have +taught him that?"</p> + +<p>The other shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Come, we will see."</p> + +<p>Together they tiptoed through the dark church, softly—up to the +organ-loft and peered in. The boy, oblivious to sight and sound, played +on.</p> + +<p>Kerlman leaned far forward, craning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56" href="#Page_56">[56]</a></span> his neck. He drew back, a look of +stupefaction in his face. He held up his large thumb and looked at it +soberly.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" whispered the other.</p> + +<p>"You see, Johannes Bohm?" He shook the fat thumb in his companion's +face. "He does it with that!"</p> + +<p>The master peered forward, incredulous. Slowly he crept up behind the +boy, his eyes fastened on the moving hands. His shadow fell on the keys +and the boy looked up. His face lighted with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Go on," said the master sternly. His eyes still watched the hands. +Slowly his big fingers reached over and grasped the thumb as it pressed +lightly on a key. "Who told you that?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>The boy looked down at it, puzzled. Then his face grew a little ashamed +and doubtful. "It is wrong, I know," he admitted. "Yes, it is wrong."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57" href="#Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who taught you?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, no one would teach it. I just happened—one day. It makes it so +easy."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see." The master's voice was curt.</p> + +<p>"I will never do it again," said the boy humbly.</p> + +<p>"No—you might play it for me once—just once, for me," said the master.</p> + +<p>The boy's hands ran lovingly to the keys. They crept along the maze of +sound and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. Shyly the small thumb +darted out and found its key, and filled the great church with the +tremulous, haunting call of note answering note.</p> + +<p>The master bending over the keys wiped his brow and looked at the boy +proudly, with a little wonder in his face. "Good.... Ach—but good, +good!" he murmured softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58" href="#Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. "May I use +it—sometimes?" he asked, doubting.</p> + +<p>Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. "You may use it." He laughed again. +"All the world will use it!" he said, patting him on the back. "It is a +great discovery. Play more."</p> + +<p>The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master +slipped away. "Come down," he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk +filled the doorway. "Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry +this day."</p> + +<p>Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other +solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their +sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on +the table and regarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59" href="#Page_59">[59]</a></span> it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he said.</p> + +<p>Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling.</p> + +<p>The fat man raised his thumb from the table and twiddled it in the air. +It fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, half impatient, half +laughing. "How is one to do it—such fool tricks! Ja, ja!"</p> + +<p>The keen eyes watching him had a proud look. "You know what he will +be—that boy," he said exultingly. "He will be a great musician!"</p> + +<p>"He will be a great bother," grumbled Kerlman. "First," he checked off +the vices on his fingers—"first, he comes to us three weeks late—three +weeks late—because his brother promises, and takes it back and waits to +die—Bah!" He took a sip of beer and laid out another fat finger. +"Second, he sings two octaves at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60" href="#Page_60">[60]</a></span> the same time—two octaves! Did one +ever hear such nonsense! Third, he loses his voice, his beautiful voice, +and sings no more at all." He shook his head heavily. "Fourth, he is +running away to Hamburg to listen—always to Hamburg, to listen to +Reinken, and coming back to be forgiven. Ja, ja! Seven times I have +forgiven him. I think he is making ready now to go once more!" He glared +at his companion.</p> + +<p>Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask you for that to-day," he said, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Ja! ja—I have thought so." He looked sadly at the four short fingers +resting on the table. "And fifth—fifth—now what is that fifth? Ach, it +is that! That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That crawling, snivelling, +stiff-necked one!" He brought it down with a thump on the table. "To +make me all my days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61" href="#Page_61">[61]</a></span> ashamed!" He held up the thumb and shook it +scornfully.</p> + +<p>High up in the Johanneskirche, in front of the big organ, the boy was +playing—with head and hands and heart and feet and thumb—swaying to +the music, lifting it from the great organ till it pealed forth, a +mighty sound, and, breaking from the gloomy church, floated on the still +air.... In the garden across the way, above their mugs, two old, +white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled in the sun.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62" href="#Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>The Katherinenkirche was dark, and very still—except for a faint noise +that came from a far corner of the upper left-hand gallery. The old +verger, moving about in felt slippers below, paused now and then, and +looked up as the sound grew louder or died away. It was like a mouse +nibbling—and yet it was not a mouse.</p> + +<p>The verger lighted a taper and prepared to ascend the stairs.</p> + +<p>He heaved a sigh as he climbed the steep step, throwing the candle rays +ahead of him into the gloom of the gallery. Not a sound. The silence of +death was in the big church.... Muttering to himself, he traversed the +long aisle at the top of the gallery, peering down into the vacant seats +that edged the blackness below.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63" href="#Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suddenly he stopped. His eye had caught a gleam of something to the left +of the last pillar. He snuffed the wavering taper with his fingers and +leaned forward. A face grew out of the darkness and stood up.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing?" demanded the old man, falling back a step.</p> + +<p>"Eating my supper," said the youth. He held up a handkerchief. In the +dim light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped themselves, and a +generous odor of cheese floated out.</p> + +<p>"In the church!" said the verger, with an accent of horror.</p> + +<p>The youth's face regarded him pleadingly.</p> + +<p>"Come away!" said the old man sternly.</p> + +<p>He led the way down the steep stair, into a high, small room, lighted by +a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64" href="#Page_64">[64]</a></span> narrow window over which cobwebs ran. "Here you may eat," he said +laconically.</p> + +<p>With a grateful glance the youth seated himself on the edge of a chair +and opening his handkerchief took out a piece of the dry bread. His +teeth broke it crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as he ate.</p> + +<p>The old man nodded with satisfaction. "That is the mouse," he said.</p> + +<p>The youth smiled faintly.</p> + +<p>"Where do you come from?" asked the verger.</p> + +<p>"From Lüneburg."</p> + +<p>"You walked?"</p> + +<p>The youth nodded.</p> + +<p>"I have seen you before, here."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>The old man watched him a minute. "You ought to have some beer with +that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65" href="#Page_65">[65]</a></span> bread and cheese," he said. "Have you no coppers?"</p> + +<p>The youth shook his head. "Reinken is my beer," he said, after a little. +His face was lighted with a sweet smile.</p> + +<p>The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He limped from the room. Presently he +returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. "Drink that," he +commanded.</p> + +<p>The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. "Ja, +that is good!" he said simply.</p> + +<p>The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In half an hour Reinken comes to play," +he suggested craftily.</p> + +<p>The youth started and flushed. "To-night?"</p> + +<p>"Ja."</p> + +<p>"I did not think he came at night," he said softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66" href="#Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the +festival—with no one to hear," he added significantly.</p> + +<p>The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They +brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed.</p> + +<p>The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. "Nein," he said. +"It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you +before—when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come." He put +aside the youth's impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark +stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the +wall he slipped back a panel.</p> + +<p>The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great +organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he +turned, the old man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67" href="#Page_67">[67]</a></span> was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his +twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle.</p> + +<p>The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pushing back +the sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell forward on his hands. The +hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the +master was old. Sixty years—seventy—ah, more than seventy. Nine years +ago he was that—at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap. +Seventy-nine—an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival +and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him +and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the +keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps +of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68" href="#Page_68">[68]</a></span> and then. +But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power. +The boy's heart went from him.... If he might but touch a fold of the +faded gown—seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring +was about him—white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth. +"By the waters, the waters of Babylon; by the waters." The slender, +delicate hands called out the notes one by one. Tears ran down the boy's +face. Gropingly he felt for the door—only to seek a blessing of the +hands....</p> + +<p>The old verger waited at the foot of the stairs, nodding in the dim +light. He sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I want to speak to him," said the youth humbly. "Only a word!"</p> + +<p>The old man hesitated. The music had ceased and a slow step was coming +down the church—an old man's step.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69" href="#Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ja. Stand there," he whispered. "It shall be as you wish. Stand there!" +He pushed the youth behind a pillar and stepped forward, his taper held +aloft.</p> + +<p>"Mein Herr," he said softly.</p> + +<p>The organist paused and looked at him inquiringly. His face was very +tired. "What wouldst thou, Wilhelm?" he said gently.</p> + +<p>"It is a young man—" he stammered and paused.</p> + +<p>"A young man?"</p> + +<p>"He would speak with you, Mein Herr—but a word." The old man's voice +waited.</p> + +<p>"Speak with me? Does he bring credentials?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, your honor——"</p> + +<p>The great organist drew his gown about him. "I have not time, Wilhelm. +Many seek me and life runs fast. I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70" href="#Page_70">[70]</a></span> not time." He bowed courteously +and moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold of his robe floated out and +touched the hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden in the dim light.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71" href="#Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>The choirmaster smiled deprecatingly. He had small, obsequious eyes and +narrow shoulders. "If the gracious Herr would be so good," he said, +shrugging them a little. "The people have assembled." He glanced back +over the fast-filling church and raised his eyebrows a trifle to +indicate the honor.</p> + +<p>Bach smiled gravely. A humorous look came into his eyes. "Let the +service go on as usual," he said quietly. "When it is done, I will +play—if time allows."</p> + +<p>The choirmaster squeezed his moist palms and wiped an anxious brow. "And +that, too—will be well," he murmured gratefully. "It will please the +old organist," he added apologetically.</p> + +<p>Bach nodded his head. "I had thought of that."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72" href="#Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> + +<p>The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked.</p> + +<p>The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile +played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him."</p> + +<p>"He has been a great player—in his day," said the choirmaster. The note +of apology in his voice had deepened.</p> + +<p>"That I know," said Bach shortly.</p> + +<p>"And now it is the people—they will not let him go," murmured the +choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play—every motet and +aria and choral—and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster +wiped his brow.</p> + +<p>"It is a long life," said Bach musingly. A sweet look had come into his +face, like the sunlight on an autumn field. He raised his hand with a +courteous gesture. "Let me be summoned later—at the right time."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73" href="#Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>The choirmaster bowed himself away.</p> + +<p>Already the notes of the great organ filled the church. It was Reinken's +touch upon the keys—feeble and tremulous here and there—but still the +touch of the master.</p> + +<p>With bent head Bach moved to a place a little apart and sat down. +Curious glances followed him and whispers ran through the church, coming +back to gaze at the severe, quiet face, with its look of sweetness and +power.</p> + +<p>He was unconscious of the crowd. His thoughts were with the old man +playing aloft—the thin, serene face—the wrinkled hands upon the +keys—twenty years.... The time had come—at last.... The music stole +through his musings and touched him. He lifted his face as the sound +swept through the church. The fire and strength of youth had gone from +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74" href="#Page_74">[74]</a></span> touch, but something remained—something inevitable and gentle that +soothed the spirit and lifted the heart—like the ghost of a soul +calling to itself from the past.</p> + +<p>Bach started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. It was the choirmaster, +small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him blindly.</p> + +<p>At the top of the stairs the choirmaster turned and waited for him. "At +last we have the honor. Welcome to the greatest master in Germany!" he +said smoothly, throwing open the door.</p> + +<p>Without a word Bach brushed past him. His eye sought the great organ. +The master had left the bench and sat a few steps below, leaning +forward, his hands clasped on his cane, his white head nodding +tremblingly above it. Far below the words of the preacher droned to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75" href="#Page_75">[75]</a></span> +close, and the crowd stirred and craned discreet necks.</p> + +<p>Quietly the organist slipped into the vacant place. The Bach festival +danced before him.... Uncle Heinrich on the platform—"The great +Reinken—will no one of you promise?" His father's face smiling, his +father's hand on his head.... Slowly his hands dropped to the keys.</p> + +<p>The audience settled back with a sigh. At last they should hear him—the +great Bach.</p> + +<p>The silence waited, deep and patient and unerring, as it had waited a +decade—the touch of this man. A sound crossed it and the audience +turned bewildered faces. Question and dissent and wonder were in +them.... Not some mighty fugue, as they had hoped—not even an aria, but +a simple air from a quaint, old-fashioned choral,—"By the waters, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76" href="#Page_76">[76]</a></span> +waters of Babylon." They looked at one another with lifted brows. +Reinken's choral!—and played with Reinken's very touch—a gentle, +hurrying rhythm ... as Reinken used to play it—when he was young.... In +a moment they understood. Tears stood in bewildered eyes and a look of +sweet good-will swept the church. He had given back to them their own. +Their thought ran tenderly to the old man above, hearkening to his own +soul coming to him, strong and swift and eternal, out of the years. +Underneath the choral and above it and around, went the soul of Bach, +steadfast and true, wishing only to serve, and through service making +beautiful. He filled with wonder and majesty and tenderness the simple +old choral.</p> + +<p>A murmur ran through the church, a sound of love and admiration. And +above,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77" href="#Page_77">[77]</a></span> with streaming eyes, an old man groped his way to the organ, his +hands held out to touch the younger ones that reached to him. "I thought +my work had died," he said slowly, "Now that it lives, I can die in +peace."</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78" href="#Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79" href="#Page_79">[79]</a></span></p> +<h2>A WINDOW OF MUSIC</h2> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80" href="#Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81" href="#Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>"About so high, I should think," said the girl, with a swift twinkle. +She measured off a diminutive man on the huge blue-and-white porcelain +stove and stood back to survey it. "And about as big," she added +reflectively.</p> + +<p>Her sister laughed. The girl nodded again.</p> + +<p>"And <i>terribly</i> homely," she said, making a little mouth. Her eyes +laughed. She leaned forward with a mysterious air. "And, Marie, his coat +is green, and his trousers are—white!"</p> + +<p>The two girls giggled in helpless amusement. They had a stolid German +air of family resemblance, but the laughing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82" href="#Page_82">[82]</a></span> eyes of the younger danced +in their round setting, while the sleepy blue ones of the older girl +followed the twinkling pantomime with a look of half protest.</p> + +<p>"They were in the big reception-room," went on the girl, "and I bounced +in on them. Mamma Rosine was giving him the family history—you and me."</p> + +<p>They giggled again.</p> + +<p>The younger one drew down her face and folded her hands in matronly +dignity, gazing pensively at the blue-and-white stove, her head a little +to one side.</p> + +<p>"My own voice is alto, Herr Schubert, and my daughter Caroline's; but my +daughter Marie has a <i>beautiful</i> soprano." She rolled her eyes, with an +air of resigned sentiment, and shook the bobbing black curls gently from +side to side. "And he just twiddled his thumbs like this, and grunted." +She seized her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83" href="#Page_83">[83]</a></span> sister around her plump waist and shook her vigorously. +"Don't you <i>see</i> it?" she demanded.</p> + +<p>The older girl laughed hysterically, with disturbed eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't, Cara!" she protested.</p> + +<p>The dark eyes bubbled again.</p> + +<p>"And his hair curls as tight—" She ran a hand along her rumpled curls, +then a look of dismay crossed the laughing face. She subsided into a +chair and folded her hands meekly. The little feet, in their stout +ankle-ties, swung back and forth beneath the chair, and the round, +German face assumed an air of wholesome stupidity.</p> + +<p>Her sister, whose slow glance had followed hers, gave a little gasp, and +sank into a chair on the opposite side of the stove, in duplicate +meekness.</p> + +<p>The door at the other end of the room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84" href="#Page_84">[84]</a></span> had swung open, and a tall woman +swept in, followed by a diminutive figure in green coat and white +trousers. A pair of huge spectacles, mounted on a somewhat stumpy nose, +peered absently from side to side as he approached.</p> + +<p>"My daughters, Herr Schubert," said the tall lady, with a circumflex +wave of her white hand that included the waxlike figures on each side +the stove.</p> + +<p>They regarded him fixedly and primly.</p> + +<p>His glance darted from one to the other, and he smiled broadly.</p> + +<p>"I haf seen the young <i>Fräulein</i> before," he said, indicating the +younger with his fat hand.</p> + +<p>The dark, round eyes gazed at him expressionless. His spectacles +returned the gaze and twinkled.</p> + +<p>"She has come into the reception-room while you were explaining about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85" href="#Page_85">[85]</a></span> +the voice of Fräulein Marie," he said, with a glance at the other +sister.</p> + +<p>The waxlike faces shook a little.</p> + +<p>The lady regarded them severely.</p> + +<p>"She is only eleven," she murmured apologetically to the little man.</p> + +<p>"Ja! So?" he muttered. His glance flashed again at the immovable face.</p> + +<p>"Caroline, my child, come here," said her mother.</p> + +<p>The child slipped down from the stiff chair and crossed to her mother's +side. Her little hands were folded, and her small toes pointed primly +ahead.</p> + +<p>"My youngest daughter, Herr Schubert," said the lady, slipping an arm +around the stiff waist. "Caroline, this is your new music tutor, Herr +Schubert."</p> + +<p>The child bobbed primly, and lifted a pair of dark, reflective eyes to +his face.</p> + +<p>His own smiled shrewdly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86" href="#Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She will be a good pupil," he said; "it is the musical type." The green +coat and white trousers bowed circumspectly to the small figure.</p> + +<p>"Now, Marie"—the tall lady shook out her skirts—"Herr Schubert will +try your voice. But first, Herr Schubert, will you not give us the +pleasure?" She motioned politely toward the piano, and sank back with an +air of fatigued sentiment.</p> + +<p>He sat down on the stool and ran his white, fat fingers through his +curling hair. It bristled a little. The fingers fell to his knees, and +his big head nodded indecisively. Then it was thrown back, and the +fingers dropped on the keys: the music of a Beethoven sonata filled the +room.</p> + +<p>The grand lady forgot her sentiment, and the little waxlike figures gave +way. Their eager, tremulous eyes rested wonderingly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87" href="#Page_87">[87]</a></span> on the broad back +of the player.</p> + +<p>The white fingers had dropped on the keys with the lightness of a +feather. They rose and flashed and twinkled, and ran along the keyboard +with swift, steel-like touch. The door at the end of the room opened +softly. A tall man entered. He looked inquiringly at the grotesque +green-and-white figure seated before the piano, then his glance met his +wife's, and he sank into a big chair by the door, a pleased look on his +dark face. The younger child glanced at him shyly. He returned the look +and smiled. The child's face brightened.</p> + +<p>The door opened again, and a slight figure stood in the doorway. He +looked approvingly toward the piano, and dropped into a chair at the +other side of the door, twirling his long, light mustaches.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88" href="#Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>The player, wrapped in sound, was oblivious to the world outside. The +music enveloped him and rose about him, transfiguring the plain, squat +figure, floating above the spectacled face and crisp, curling locks. His +hearers glanced approvingly at one another now and then, but no one +spoke or moved. Suddenly they were aware that a new mood had crept into +the notes. Quick, sharp flashes of fear alternated with passages of +clear, sunlit strength, and underneath the changing melody galloping +hoof-beats rose and fell.</p> + +<p>The dark-eyed child sat poised forward, her hands clasped about her +knees, her tremulous gaze fixed on the flying fingers. She started and +caught her breath sharply. Faster and faster thudded the hoofs; the note +of questioning fear beat louder, and into the sweet, answering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89" href="#Page_89">[89]</a></span> melody +crept a note of doubt, undefined and terrible, a spirit echo of the +flying hoofs. It caught up question and answer, and turned them to +sharp, swift flight. The pursuing hoofs struck the sound and broke it; +with a cry the child leaped to her feet. Her hands were outstretched, +and her face worked. The man by the door turned slightly. He held out a +quiet, imperious hand, and the child fled across the room, clasping the +hand in both her own, and burying her face in his shoulder. The swift +sound was upon them, around them, over them, sweeping past, whirling +them in its leaping, gigantic grasp. It hesitated a second, grew +strangely sweet and hushed, and dropped through a full, clear octave on +a low note. It ceased. The air quivered. The player sat motionless, +gazing before him.</p> + +<p>The dark man sprang to his feet, his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90" href="#Page_90">[90]</a></span> face illumined, the child clinging +to his hand. He patted the dark curls carelessly as he flashed a smile +to the young man at the other side of the room.</p> + +<p>"That's mine, Schönstein," he said exultantly; "your tenor voice won't +carry that."</p> + +<p>The other nodded half grudgingly.</p> + +<p>They were both looking toward the player. He swayed a little on the +stool, stared at the ceiling a moment, and swung slowly about, blinking +uncertainly.</p> + +<p>The older man stepped forward, holding out a quick hand.</p> + +<p>"Wunderschön!" he said warmly. "What is it? Are there words to it? Can +you get it for me?"</p> + +<p>The tiny man seemed to shrink a little. He put out his fat hand and +waited a moment before he spoke. The full, thick lips groped at the +words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91" href="#Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is—it is something—of my own," he said at last.</p> + +<p>They crowded about him, questioning and delighted.</p> + +<p>"Have you published it? What is it?"</p> + +<p>"'Der Erlkönig,'" said Schubert shortly. The child's face quivered.</p> + +<p>"I know," she said.</p> + +<p>Her father glanced down at her, smiling.</p> + +<p>"What do you know?" he said gently.</p> + +<p>"I read it," said the child, simply. She shivered a little. "The Erlking +carried him off," she said. She covered her face, suddenly in tears. She +was quivering from head to foot.</p> + +<p>The count glanced significantly at his wife. She came forward and laid +her hand on the child's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Come, Caroline. Come, Marie," she said. "Later, Herr Schubert, I shall +have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92" href="#Page_92">[92]</a></span> the pleasure of thanking you." She swept from the room.</p> + +<p>The three men remained, looking a little uncomfortably toward the closed +door.</p> + +<p>The count shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the musician.</p> + +<p>"A very impressionable child," he said lightly.</p> + +<p>"A very unusual child," returned the small man gravely. He was blinking +absently at the count's dark face. "She has the temperament," he +murmured softly; "she will learn."</p> + +<p>The count beamed on him.</p> + +<p>"We depend on you to teach her," he said suavely. "You will go with us +next week to Zelitz?"</p> + +<p>The young man bowed uncertainly. His full lips smiled doubtfully. "It is +an honor," he said, "but I must work. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93" href="#Page_93">[93]</a></span> is not time to lose. I must +work." He moved his big head from side to side and twirled his fingers.</p> + +<p>The count smiled genially.</p> + +<p>"It shall be arranged—a little house by yourself, apart from the +castle—a piano, absolute quiet, lessons only by your own arrangement." +He spoke quietly, in the tone of a superior granting terms.</p> + +<p>The thick lips opposite him were puckering a little, and the eyes behind +the great spectacles blinked mistily.</p> + +<p>"I must have time," repeated the little man—"time to think of it."</p> + +<p>The count's face clouded a shade.</p> + +<p>"We depend on you," he said. The tone had changed subtly. It was less +assertive. "With the Baron von Schönstein—" he motioned toward his +companion; the two young men bowed slightly—"with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94" href="#Page_94">[94]</a></span> baron we have a +fine quartet, and with you to train us—oh, you <i>must</i> come!" His face +broke into a winning smile.</p> + +<p>The young man smiled in return.</p> + +<p>"I will come," he said; "but—free," he added.</p> + +<p>"Free as the wind," assented the count easily. The note of patronage was +gone.</p> + +<p>A big sunny smile broke over the musician's face. It radiated from the +spectacles and broadened the wide mouth.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ach!</i> We shall do great things!" he announced proudly.</p> + +<p>"Great things," assented the count. "And 'Der Erlkönig'—I must have +'Der Erlkönig.' Bring it with you."</p> + +<p>"'Der Erlkönig' shall be yours," said Schubert grandly. There was the +air of granting a royal favor in the round, green-and-white little +figure as it bowed itself from the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95" href="#Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> + +<p>In the hall he stumbled a little, looking uncertainly about. A small +figure glided from a curtained window and approached him timidly.</p> + +<p>"Your hat is on the next landing, Herr Schubert," she said.</p> + +<p>He looked down at her. His big face flushed with pleasure. "You like my +music," he said bluntly.</p> + +<p>She shook her head gravely.</p> + +<p>"It is terrible," she replied.</p> + +<p>The spectacles glared at her.</p> + +<p>"It hurts me here." She raised a small, dark hand to her chest.</p> + +<p>The musician's eyes lighted.</p> + +<p>"That is right," he said simply; "ja, that is right—it hurts."</p> + +<p>They stood looking at each other in the dim light. The child's eyes +studied the big face wistfully.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would never play it again."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96" href="#Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not play my 'Erlkönig!'" He glared at her.</p> + +<p>She nodded slowly.</p> + +<p>"Never," she said.</p> + +<p>He waited a moment, looking at her sternly. He pushed his spectacles far +up on the short curls and rubbed his nose vigorously.</p> + +<p>The child's eyes waited on the queer, perturbed face. She gave a quick +little sigh. Her lips had parted.</p> + +<p>He looked down with a sudden big smile.</p> + +<p>"I will never play it for you again," he said grandly. The spectacles +descended swiftly, the door banged behind him, and the child was left +alone in the great dim hall.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97" href="#Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>The heat of the day was nearly spent, but the leaves of the oaks hung +motionless. The two young men walking beneath them had bared their +heads. One of them glanced up now and then, as if looking for coolness +in the green canopy.</p> + +<p>"It will rain before night," said the baron, casually, noting the +glance. His lithe figure, in its white suit and blue tie, showed no sign +of heat or fatigue.</p> + +<p>The musician, puffing beside him, wiped a handkerchief across his warm +face.</p> + +<p>"Ja, it will rain," he assented hopefully.</p> + +<p>The baron glanced at him, smiling.</p> + +<p>"You find ten miles a good stretch," he remarked. "We went too far, +perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Nein, not too far. We have had great talk," responded Schubert. His +face under its mask of perspiration shone gloriously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98" href="#Page_98">[98]</a></span> He glanced down a +little ruefully at his short, fat legs in their white casings. "But my +legs they do not talk," he announced naïvely. "Ja, they are very weary, +perhaps; but my soul is not weary." He struck his breast a resounding +blow with the palm of his hand and straightened his short body.</p> + +<p>The baron laughed musically.</p> + +<p>A low, sweet sound, stealing among the oaks, answered the laugh. They +stopped short, looking at each other. The sound came again, a far-off, +haunting peal, with a little catch and sob in its breath.</p> + +<p>They stole swiftly forward on tiptoe. Among the trees a roof and the +outline of a small building glimmered. It was covered with dark ivy. +Smoke came from the chimney, and through the open window drifted the +strange, alluring sound.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99" href="#Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The house of the little folk of the wood," whispered Schubert, pressing +forward.</p> + +<p>"The wash-house," returned the baron, with a laugh.</p> + +<p>The sound had ceased. The wood, in the soft heat, was very still.</p> + +<p>"It is Marka," said the baron, glancing toward the house. "Marka has +charge of the linen. I heard her the other day, in one of the corridors, +singing; but Fritz hushed her up before she'd begun. She's a +Hungarian——"</p> + +<p>"Hush!" Schubert lifted a finger.</p> + +<p>The music had begun again. The sadness was gone from it. It laughed and +smiled to itself, and grew merry in a sweet, shy fashion that set the +air about them astir in little rippling runs.</p> + +<p>Schubert had started forward.</p> + +<p>"I must have it!" he said impetuously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100" href="#Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Take care!" warned Schönstein; "she is a witch."</p> + +<p>The musician laughed, stealing away among the tree-trunks. He moved +softly forward, his short fingers fumbling at his pockets. A torn +envelope and the stub of a pencil rewarded the search. His face lighted +as he grasped the pencil more firmly in his fingers, moistening it at +his thick lips; he approached the open window.</p> + +<p>He peered uncertainly into the dim room. By the fireplace stood a lithe, +quick figure, sorting the pile of linen at her side. As she lifted each +delicate piece she examined it for holes or rents. Careless little +snatches of song played about her lips as she worked.</p> + +<p>The torn envelope rested on the sill, and the stubby pencil flew across +its surface. The big face of the musician,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101" href="#Page_101">[101]</a></span> bent above it, was alight +with joy. The sound ceased, and he straightened himself, pushing back +the hat from his brow, and gazing fondly at the little dots on the torn +bit of paper.</p> + +<p>The girl looked up with a start. The shadow had fallen on her linen. She +gazed with open, incredulous lips at the uncouth figure framed in the +window.</p> + +<p>A broad smile wreathed the big face.</p> + +<p>"Go on, Marka," he said. He nodded encouragement.</p> + +<p>She looked down at the pillow-slip in her hands, and back again to the +face in the window. The linen slip was plaited uncertainly in her +fingers.</p> + +<p>"Go on," said Schubert peremptorily. "You were singing. What was it, +that tune? Go on."</p> + +<p>She looked up again with bold shyness, and shook her head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102" href="#Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> + +<p>The face glared at her.</p> + +<p>She smiled saucily, and, putting two plump hands into her apron pockets, +advanced toward the window. Her steps danced a little.</p> + +<p>Franz stared at the vision. He took off his spectacles and rubbed them, +blinking a little.</p> + +<p>"Waugh!" he said.</p> + +<p>She laughed musically.</p> + +<p>He replaced the spectacles, and looked at her more kindly.</p> + +<p>She was leaning on the other side of the casing, her arms folded on the +sill. Her saucy face was tilted to his.</p> + +<p>He bent suddenly, and kissed it full on the mouth.</p> + +<p>She started back, fetching him a ringing slap on the cheek.</p> + +<p>"You ugly thing!" she said. She laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103" href="#Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<p>Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a pleased smile on his lips.</p> + +<p>"You're too ugly to look at," said the girl promptly.</p> + +<p>He looked down at her and smiled.</p> + +<p>"That tasted good," he said.</p> + +<p>She pouted a little and glanced at the door.</p> + +<p>His glance followed hers.</p> + +<p>"Sing me some more," he suggested craftily.</p> + +<p>She threw back her head, and her lips broke into a strange, sweet sound. +The dark eyes were half veiled, and her full throat swelled.</p> + +<p>The wood about them darkened as she sang. Swift birds flashed by to +their nests, and the green leaves quivered a little. A clash broke among +the tree-tops; they swayed and beat heavily, and big drops fell. The +girl's eyes flashed wide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104" href="#Page_104">[104]</a></span> The song ceased on her lips. She glanced at +the big drops on the sill and then at the open door.</p> + +<p>"Come in," she said shyly.</p> + +<p>He opened the door and went in.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105" href="#Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>"We feared that you were not coming, Herr Schubert," said the countess +suavely.</p> + +<p>The group had gathered in the music-room.... The storm had ceased, and a +cool breeze came through the window. Outside in the castle grounds dim +lights glimmered.</p> + +<p>The young man advanced into the group a little awkwardly, rubbing his +eyes as if waking from a dream.</p> + +<p>The baron, standing by the piano, glanced at him sharply under lowered +lids. His lips took on a little smile, not unkind, but full of secret +amusement.</p> + +<p>The musician passed him without a glance, and, seating himself at the +piano, threw back his head with an impatient gesture. He turned swiftly +the leaves of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106" href="#Page_106">[106]</a></span> music that stood on the rack before him.</p> + +<p>"Sing this," he said briefly.</p> + +<p>He struck a few chords, and they gathered about him, taking up their +parts with a careless familiarity and skill. It was Haydn's "Creation." +They had sung it many times, but a new power was in it to-night. The +music lifted them. The touch on the keys held the sound, and shaped it, +and filled it with light.</p> + +<p>When it was finished they glanced at one another. They smiled; then they +looked at the player. He sat wrapped in thought, his head bowed, his +fingers touching the keys with questioning touch. They moved back +noiselessly and waited. When he was like this, they did not disturb him.</p> + +<p>The melody crept out at last, the strange, haunting Hungarian air, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107" href="#Page_107">[107]</a></span> +unrest and sadness and passion and sweetness trembling through it.</p> + +<p>The baron started as he heard it. He moved carelessly to the window and +stood with his back to the room, looking out.</p> + +<p>The countess looked up with a startled air. She glanced inquiringly +toward her husband. He was leaning forward, a look of interest on his +dark face. The child at his knee shrank a little. Her eyes were full of +a strange light. On the opposite side of the room her sister Marie sat +unmoved, her placid doll eyes resting on the player with a look of +gentle content.</p> + +<p>The passionate note quickened. Something uncanny and impure had crept +into it. It raised its head and hissed a little and was gone, gliding +away among the low notes and losing itself in a rustling wave of +sound.... The music trembled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108" href="#Page_108">[108]</a></span> a moment and was still; then the passion +burst in a flood upon them. Dark chasms opened; strange, wild fastnesses +shut them in; storm and license and evil held them. Blinding flashes +fell on them. Slowly the player emerged into a wide sunlit place. The +music filled it. Winds blew from the four quarters to meet it, and the +air was full of melody.</p> + +<p>The count stirred a little as the last notes fell.</p> + +<p>"A strange composition," he said briefly.</p> + +<p>The child at his knee lifted her head. She raised a tiny hand and +brought it down sharply, her small face aglow with suppressed anger.</p> + +<p>"It was not good!" she said.</p> + +<p>The player turned to look at her. His big face worked strangely.</p> + +<p>"No, it was not good," he said. "I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109" href="#Page_109">[109]</a></span> shall not play that again. But it is +great music," he added, with a little laugh.</p> + +<p>The count looked at him shrewdly. He patted the child's trembling hand.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said soothingly, "something to clear away the mists! 'Der +Erlkönig,' We have never had it; bring it out."</p> + +<p>Schubert hesitated an instant. He glanced at the child.</p> + +<p>"That music—I have it not, Herr Count—I left it in Vienna."</p> + +<p>The count moved impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Play it from memory," he said.</p> + +<p>The musician turned slowly to the piano.</p> + +<p>The child's eyes followed him. She shivered a little.</p> + +<p>He swung back with a swift gesture, feeling absently in his pockets.</p> + +<p>"A piece of tissue-paper," he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110" href="#Page_110">[110]</a></span> murmured. He had extracted a small comb +from one of his pockets. He regarded it thoughtfully. "If I had one +little piece of paper—" He looked about him helplessly.</p> + +<p>"There is some in the music-rack, Marie. Find it for him," said the +count.</p> + +<p>The girl found it and laid it in his hand.</p> + +<p>He turned back to the piano, adjusting and smoothing it. His broad back +was an effective screen. The group waited, a look of interest on their +faces.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he wheeled about, his hands raised to his mouth, the comb, +thinly covered with tissue-paper, at his lips, and his fat cheeks +distended. His eyes behind the big spectacles glowed portentously.</p> + +<p>They gazed at him in astonishment.</p> + +<p>He drew a full breath and drove it forth, a lugubrious note. With +scowling brows and set face he darted the instrument<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111" href="#Page_111">[111]</a></span> back and forth +across his puckered lips. It wailed and shrieked, and out of the noise +and discord emerged, at a galloping trot, "Der Erlkönig!"</p> + +<p>The child, who had been regarding him intently, threw back her head, and +a little laugh broke from her lips. Her face danced. She came and stood +by the player, her hand resting on his knee.</p> + +<p>Herr Schubert puffed and blew, and "The Erlking" pranced and thumped. +Now and then he stumbled and fell, and the fugitives flew fast ahead.</p> + +<p>The player's face was grave beyond belief, filled with a kind of fat +melancholy, and tinged with tragic intent.</p> + +<p>The faces watching it passed from question to amusement, and from +amusement to protest.</p> + +<p>"Nein, nein, mein Herr!" said the countess, as she wiped her mild blue<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112" href="#Page_112">[112]</a></span> +eyes and shook her blond curls. "Nicht mehr! nicht mehr!"</p> + +<p>With a deep, snorting sob the sound ceased. The comb dropped from his +lips, and the player sat regarding them solemnly. A smile curved his big +lips.</p> + +<p>"Ja," he said simply, "that was great music. I have made it myself, that +music."</p> + +<p>With laughter and light words the party broke up. At a touch from the +count the musician lingered. The others had left the room.</p> + +<p>The count walked to the open window and stood for a moment staring into +the darkness. Then he wheeled about.</p> + +<p>"What was it you played?" he said swiftly.</p> + +<p>"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert briefly.</p> + +<p>The count looked incredulous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113" href="#Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was your own," he said.</p> + +<p>"Partly," admitted the musician.</p> + +<p>The count nodded.</p> + +<p>"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late——"</p> + +<p>Schubert shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I told the child—you heard—I cannot play it again, that music."</p> + +<p>The count laughed lightly.</p> + +<p>"As you like." He held out a hand. "Good night, my friend," he said +cordially. "You are a strange man."</p> + +<p>The grotesque, sensitive face opposite him quivered. The big lips +trembled a little as they opened.</p> + +<p>"I am <i>not</i> a strange man," said Schubert vehemently. "That music—it +was—the devil!"</p> + +<p>The count laughed again lightly. He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Good night," he said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114" href="#Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>A soft haze hung over Zelitz. The moonlight, filtering through it, +touched the paths and shrubs with shifting radiance and lifted them out +of shadow. Under the big trees the darkness lay black, but in the open +spaces it had given way to a gray, elusive whiteness that came and went +like a still breathing of the quiet night.</p> + +<p>A young girl, coming down one of the winding paths, paused a moment in +the open space to listen. The hand that held her trailing, shimmering +skirts away from the gravel was strong and supple, and the face thrown +back to the moonlight wore a tense, earnest look; but the dark eyes in +their curving lids were like a child's eyes. They seemed to laugh +subtly. It may have been that the moonlight shifted across them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115" href="#Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<p>A young man, standing in the shadow of the trees, smiled to himself as +he watched her. He stepped from beneath the trees and crossed the open +space between them.</p> + +<p>The girl watched him come without surprise.</p> + +<p>"It is a beautiful night, Herr Schubert," she said quietly as he stood +beside her.</p> + +<p>"A wonderful night, my lady," he answered softly.</p> + +<p>She looked down at him.</p> + +<p>"Why are you not in the castle, playing?" she demanded archly.</p> + +<p>"The night called me," he said.</p> + +<p>She half turned away.</p> + +<p>He started forward.</p> + +<p>"Do not go," he breathed.</p> + +<p>She paused, looking at him doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"I came to walk," she said. She moved away a few steps and paused again, +looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116" href="#Page_116">[116]</a></span> back over her shoulder. "You can come——"</p> + +<p>He sprang to her side, and they paced on in silence.</p> + +<p>She glanced at him from under her lids.</p> + +<p>His big face wore a radiant, absent-minded look. The full lips moved +softly.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking of?" she said swiftly.</p> + +<p>He flushed and came back to her.</p> + +<p>"Only a little song; it runs in my head."</p> + +<p>"Hum it to me," she commanded.</p> + +<p>He flushed again and stammered:</p> + +<p>"Nein, nein; it is not yet born."</p> + +<p>Her eyes were on the shifting light.</p> + +<p>"Will you play it to me when it is done?" she asked softly.</p> + +<p>"You know that I will."</p> + +<p>She waited a moment.</p> + +<p>"You have never dedicated a song to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117" href="#Page_117">[117]</a></span> me," she said slowly. "There are +the four to my father—but he is the count; and the one last year for +Marie—why to Marie?—and one for them all. But not one least little +song for me!" The words had dropped under her breath. Her dark eyes were +veiled. No one could say whether they laughed now.</p> + +<p>He looked up with a swift, brusque gesture.</p> + +<p>"They are all yours; you know it." The low voice rebuked her gently. +"For six years they are yours—all that I have done." The face was +turned toward her. It was filled with pleading and a kind of gentle +beauty, clumsy and sweet.</p> + +<p>She did not look at it.</p> + +<p>"There is one that I should like to hear," she said musingly. "You +played it once, years ago, on a comb. I have not heard it since." She +laughed sweetly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118" href="#Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> + +<p>Schubert smiled. The hurt look stole from his eyes.</p> + +<p>"You will hear it—my 'Erlkönig'?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"I will play it to you when I come back," he said contentedly.</p> + +<p>She stopped short in the path.</p> + +<p>"When you come back!" The subtle eyes were wide. They were not laughing.</p> + +<p>"Ja, I shall——"</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>He rubbed his great nose in the moonlight.</p> + +<p>"Nein, I know not. I know I must go——"</p> + +<p>She stopped him impatiently.</p> + +<p>"You will not go!" she said. He turned his eyes and looked at her. After +a moment her own fell. "Why will you go?" she asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119" href="#Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>The face with its dumb look was turned toward her.</p> + +<p>"That little song—it calls me," he said softly. "When it is done I will +come back again—to you."</p> + +<p>She smiled under the lids.</p> + +<p>"That little song—is it for me?" she asked sweetly.</p> + +<p>"Ja, for you." He looked pleadingly at the downcast face. "The song—it +is very sweet; it teases me."</p> + +<p>The lids quivered.</p> + +<p>"It comes to me so close, so close!" He was silent, a rapt look of +listening in his face. It broke with a swift sigh. "Ach! it is gone!"</p> + +<p>She glanced at him swiftly.</p> + +<p>"I thought the songs came quickly."</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"The others, yes; but not this one. It is not like the others. It is so +sweet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120" href="#Page_120">[120]</a></span> and gentle—far away—and pure like the snow.... It calls me—" +He broke off, gazing earnestly at the beautiful, high-bred face, with +its downcast eyes.</p> + +<p>"Nein! I cannot speak it," he said softly. "But the song it will speak +it for me—when I come."</p> + +<p>She lifted her head, and held out her hand with a gesture half shy and +very sweet.</p> + +<p>The moonlight veiled her. "I shall wait," she said gently—"for the +song."</p> + +<p>He held the slender hand for a moment in his own; then it was laid +lightly against his lips, and turning, he had disappeared among the +shadows.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121" href="#Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>"Hallo, Franz! Hallo—there!"</p> + +<p>Two young men, walking rapidly along the low hedge that shuts in the Zum +Biersack from the highway, lifted heated faces and glanced toward the +enclosure, where a youth seated at one of the tables had half risen from +his place, and was gesticulating with the open book in his hand to +vacant seats beside him.</p> + +<p>"It is Tieze," said Schubert, with a smile. "Come in."</p> + +<p>His companion nodded. The next instant a swift waiter had served them, +and three round, smiling faces surveyed one another above the foaming +mugs.</p> + +<p>"Ach!" said Tieze, looking more critically at the shorter man, "but you +have grown thin, my friend. You are not so great."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122" href="#Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>Schubert smiled complacently. He glanced down at his rotund figure.</p> + +<p>"Nein, I am little," he assented affably.</p> + +<p>His companions broke into a roar of laughter.</p> + +<p>"Drink her down, Franz! drink her down!" said Tieze, lifting the heavy +stein.</p> + +<p>Schubert wiped the foam from his lips.</p> + +<p>"Ja, that is good!" He drew a deep sigh.</p> + +<p>He reached out his hand for the open volume that lay by his companion's +hand. It was given over in silence, and he dipped into it as he sipped +the beer, smiling and scowling and humming softly. Now and then he +lifted his head and listened. His eyes looked across the noisy garden +into space.</p> + +<p>His companions ignored him. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123" href="#Page_123">[123]</a></span> laughed and chatted and sang. Other +young men joined the group, and the talk grew loud. It was the Sunday +festival of Warseck.</p> + +<p>Schubert smiled absently across the babel.</p> + +<p>"A pencil—quick!" he said in a low tone to Tieze. His hand holding the +open book trembled, and the big eyes glowed with fire.</p> + +<p>Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook his head.</p> + +<p>Schubert glared at the careless group.</p> + +<p>"A pencil, I tell you!" he said fiercely.</p> + +<p>There was a moment's lull. Nobody laughed. Some one thrust a stub of +pencil across the table. A fat young man sitting at Schubert's side +seized it and, drawing a few music-bars on the back of a programme, +pushed it on to him.</p> + +<p>"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124" href="#Page_124">[124]</a></span> sigh, "Goot—goot!" In another +moment he was lost.</p> + +<p>The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his +chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown. +Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise +broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the +garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert's big head wagged +absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and +flying pencil.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spectacles flew to his +forehead, and his round face smiled genially at the laughing group.</p> + +<p>"Done?" asked the fat young man with a smile. He reached out his hand +for the scrawled page.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125" href="#Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> + +<p>Schubert drew it jealously back.</p> + +<p>"Nein," he said quickly.</p> + +<p>Tieze, who had come around the table, stood behind them, scanning the +barred lines and the scattered shower of notes. He raised a quick hand +to the group about the table.</p> + +<p>"Gott im Himmel!" he said excitedly. "Listen, you dunderheads!"</p> + +<p>Silence fell on the group. Every glance was turned to him. He hummed +softly a few bars of sweetest melody—under the garden's din.... The +notes stopped in a choking gasp, Schubert's hand on his throat.</p> + +<p>"Stop that!" he said hoarsely. The paper had been thrust loosely into +his coat pocket. His face worked fiercely.</p> + +<p>Tieze drew back, half laughing, half alarmed.</p> + +<p>"Franz! Franz!" he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126" href="#Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> + +<p>The other brushed his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath.</p> + +<p>"Ja," he said slowly, "I might have killed you."</p> + +<p>Tieze nodded. A look of curiosity held his face.</p> + +<p>"It is schön!" he said softly. "Schön!"</p> + +<p>Schubert turned abruptly.</p> + +<p>"It is not for you.... For years I search that song, over mountains, in +the storm, in the sunshine; but it has never come—till here." His eye +swept the crowded place. "Now I have it"—he patted the rough coat +pocket—"now I have it, I go away."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127" href="#Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>The girl sitting on a rough bench by the low building stirred slightly. +She glanced behind her. Deep blackness in the wood, shifting moonshine +about her. She breathed a quick sigh. It was like that other night. Ah, +he would not come!</p> + +<p>Her face fell forward into her slender fingers. She sat immovable. The +shadow trembled a little, but the girl by the low house was blind and +deaf. Melodies of the past were about her. The shadow moved, but she had +no eyes to see; slowly it travelled across the short-cropped grass, +mystically green and white in the waning moon. Noiselessly it came; it +sank noiselessly into the shadow of the low house. A sound clicked and +was still. But the girl had not moved—memory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128" href="#Page_128">[128]</a></span> music held her. It moved +upon her spirit, low and sweet, and stirred the pulse, and breathed +itself away.</p> + +<p>She stirred a little, and laid her cheek upon her palm. Her opened eyes +rested carelessly on the ground; her look flashed wide and leaped to the +lattice window beside her, and back again to the ground. A block of +light lay there, clear and defined. It was not moonlight or dream-light. +She sprang to her feet and moved a step nearer the window. Then she +stopped, her hand at her side, her breath coming quickly. The high, +sweet notes were calling from the night. Swiftly she moved. The door +gave lightly beneath her touch. She crossed the smooth floor. She was by +his side. The music was around them, above them, shimmering. It held +them close. Slowly he turned his big, homely face and looked at her, but +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129" href="#Page_129">[129]</a></span> music did not cease. It hovered in the air above, high and pure and +sweet. The face of the young countess bent lower; a look of tenderness +waited in her subtle eyes.</p> + +<p>He sprang to his feet, his hands outstretched to ward it off.</p> + +<p>"Nein. It is not I. It is the music. You shall not be bewitched!" His +hands made swift passes, as if he would banish a spell.</p> + +<p>She caught them to her and waited.</p> + +<p>"Am I bewitched—Franz?" she said at last. The voice was very low. The +laughing eyes were looking into his.</p> + +<p>"Ja, you are bewitched," he returned stoutly.</p> + +<p>"And you?"</p> + +<p>"I have only love for you."</p> + +<p>"And I have only love for you," she repeated softly. She hummed a bit of +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130" href="#Page_130">[130]</a></span> melody and stopped, looking at him sweetly. "It is my song," she +questioned—"the song you went to seek for me?"</p> + +<p>He lifted his head proudly.</p> + +<p>"It came for you."</p> + +<p>She nodded with brimming eyes. Her hands stole softly up to the big +face. They framed it in, with its look of pride, and touched it gently. +"Dear face!" she breathed, "dear ugly face—my music face!"</p> + +<p>They moved swiftly apart. The figure of the count was in the open +doorway.</p> + +<p>She moved forward serenely and slipped her hand in his.</p> + +<p>"I am here, Father Johann," she said quietly.</p> + +<p>His fingers closed about the white ones.</p> + +<p>"Go outside, Cara. Wait there till I come."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131" href="#Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her dark, troubled eyes looked into his. They were not laughing now.</p> + +<p>"Nay, father," she said gently, "it is you who will wait outside—while +we say farewell."</p> + +<p>The count regarded her for a long moment, then he turned toward the +young musician, his face full of compassion and a kind of envy.</p> + +<p>"My friend," he said slowly, "for five minutes I shall leave her with +you. You will go away—forever."</p> + +<p>Schubert bowed proudly. His eyes were on the girl's face.</p> + +<p>As the door closed, she turned to him, holding out her hands.</p> + +<p>He took them in his, and they stood silent, looking into each other's +eyes.</p> + +<p>She drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>"What do people say when they are dying?" she asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132" href="#Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nein, I know not." His voice trembled.</p> + +<p>"There is so much, and it is nothing," said the girl dreamily. She moved +a step toward the piano, his hands locked fast in hers. "Tell me again +you love me!" she whispered.</p> + +<p>He took off the great spectacles, and laid them beside the scrawled +page.</p> + +<p>"Look in my eyes," he said gently. A kind of grandeur had touched the +homely features. The soul behind them looked out.</p> + +<p>She bent toward him. A little sob broke from her lips. She lifted the +hands and moved them swiftly toward the keys.</p> + +<p>"Tell me!" she said.</p> + +<p>With a smile of sadness, he obeyed the gesture.</p> + +<p>Melody filled the room. It flooded the moonlight. The count, pacing back +and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133" href="#Page_133">[133]</a></span> forth, halted, a look of bewilderment in his face. He stepped +swiftly toward the door.</p> + +<p>The lights on the piano flared uncertainly. They fell on the figure at +the piano. It loomed grotesque and grim, and melted away in flickering +shadow. Music played about it. Strains of sadness swept over it in the +gloom and drifted by, and the sweet, high notes rose clear. A little +distance away the figure of the young countess stood in the shifting +light. Her clasped hands hung before her. She swayed and lifted them, +groping, and turned. Her father sprang to her. Side by side they passed +into the night. The music sounded about them far and sweet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 35%;" /> + +<p>Franz Schubert, with his youth and his wreaths of fame, his homely face +and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134" href="#Page_134">[134]</a></span> soul of fire, is dead these many years; but the soul of fire is not +dead.... The Countess Esterhazy, framed for love, is dust and ashes in +her marble house. The night music plays over her tomb.</p> + +<p>The night music plays wherever night is.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135" href="#Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> +<h2>FREDERIC CHOPIN—A RECORD</h2> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136" href="#Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137" href="#Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, October 6, 1837.<br /> +</p> + +<p>It has rained all day. No one has been in. No fantasies have crept to my +soul. Nothing to break the ceaseless, monotonous drip, drip, drip on my +heart. No one but a <i>garçon</i> from the florist's bringing violets—the +great swelling bunch of English violets—Jane Stirling's violets! +Heavens, what a woman! I am like her now, in the little mirror on my +desk. Merely thinking of her has made me so! The great aquiline +nose—the shrewd, canny Scotch look—and the big mouth—alas, that +mouth! When it smiles I am enraged. Oh, Jane! Why dost thou haunt me, +night and day, with thy devotion and thy violets—and thy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138" href="#Page_138">[138]</a></span> nose! Let +women be gentle, with soft glances that thrill—soft, dark flames. +Constantia's glance? Constantia? Nay, fickle. Fickle moon of yesternight +that drips—drips—drips. Will it never cease! I cannot play the pain +away. It eats into my heart. Yet life was made for joy and +love—love—love—sweet as dream-light—sweet as music—sad and sweet +and gay—love! The weariness rests upon me. The silver clock ticks. It +chimes the pain. One—two—three—nine—ten. The night wears slowly. I +must break the burden. I will look into a woman's face, and rest.</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, October 10, 1837.<br /> +</p> + +<p>It was a thought of inspiration. I threw off the ugly loose coat and my +<i>ennui</i> together. I plunged into the fragrant bath. Little tunes hummed +to me as I rose from it. I put on clean, fresh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139" href="#Page_139">[139]</a></span> linen—fine as silk—and +evening dress. My blood coursed freely, and the scent of violets came to +me sweetly. It followed through the wet, dripping streets, and clung to +me as I ascended the softly carpeted stair to the salon of the Countess +Czosnowska. I was merry in my soul. Then a shadow crossed me. It fell +upon my shoulder, and I turned in fear to look. No one—except a naked +Venus on the wall. My good angel drew me on. I have seen her thrice +since then. It seems a day. She came and looked into my eyes, while I +played. It was fairy-music, witching and sweet—a little sad—the +fairies of the Danube. My heart danced with them in the fatherland. Her +eyes looked into mine. Sombre eyes—strange eyes. What did they say? She +leaned forward on the piano, gazing at me passionately. My soul leaped +back and stood at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140" href="#Page_140">[140]</a></span> bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was a man's +face—breadth and depth and coarseness—and the strange, sad eyes. I +longed for them and shrank upon myself. She moved away. Later we spoke +together—commonplaces. Liszt brought her to me, where I was sitting +alone. Camellias framed us in. A sweet shadow rested on my heart. She +praised my playing—gently. She understood. But the strong, sad, ugly +face! I have seen her twice since then. In her own <i>salon</i>, with the +noblest minds of France about her—and once alone. Beautiful +face—haunting sadness! Aurora—sweetest name! She loves me! +Day-spring—loved-one! The night lags——</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, November 5, 1838.<br /> +</p> + +<p>We are to go away together—to the South. There is a strange pain at my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141" href="#Page_141">[141]</a></span> +chest, a haunting cough. It will not let me go. I shall escape it—in +the South. She cares for me, day and night. Her sweet breath! My +mother's face is sad in my dreams. I shall not dream when the sun shines +warm upon me—in the South——</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Majorca</span>, November 16, 1838.<br /> +</p> + +<p>We are alone—two souls—in this island of the sea. The surf beats at +night. I lie and listen. Jane Stirling came to see us off. She brought +violets—great, swelling English violets. I smell them in the mouldy +cloister cells, night and day. This monks' home is cold and bleak. The +wind rattles through it, and at night it moans. A chill is on me. When I +cough it echoes through my heart. I love the light. Sweet music waits +the light. I will not die. The shadow haunts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142" href="#Page_142">[142]</a></span> But life is strong. +Jane's violets on my grave! I will not die.</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, March 14, 1839.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Paris—gay, live Paris! The cabs rattle sweetly on the stones. I can +breathe now. The funeral dirge will wait. In Marseilles we came upon +Nourrit—dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into +eternity! I knew it all. The solemn mass ascended for his soul—and high +above it all, I spoke in swelling chords—mystery—pain—justice—the +fatherland. A requiem for his soul—for Chopin's soul? And Heine smiles. +Brave Heine! With death upon his heart—inch by inch he fights it—with +laughs. I saw him yestermorn. His great eyes winked. They made a bet at +me. He will outlast us yet, he swore, ten years. Brave fight! Shall I +live to see it stop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143" href="#Page_143">[143]</a></span>—gasp—the last quip fail on sunny lips? I peer +into the years between. They hang among the mists. Aurora comes. It is a +week. Sweet day-spring!</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Nohant</span>, October 11, 1839.<br /> +</p> + +<p>They tell me I am well. The cough has ceased and the pain. But deep +below, it beats. Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only when I play will they +glow. They fill the world with light. I sit and play softly—her pen +moves fast. She can write with music—music—over her—around—Chopin's +music, whispered low—but clear as love. They said once George Sand was +clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes her great. It eats the soul. For +thee, Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I would not mind. I give +thee all. I ask a glance—a touch—a smile when thou art weary—leave to +love thee and to make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144" href="#Page_144">[144]</a></span> sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel, +love—with thy veiled eyes?</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Nohant</span>, May 3, 1847.<br /> +</p> + +<p>I must have money. I am a burden—sick—a cough that racks the soul. +Aurora comes but seldom. The cough hurts her. She is busy. I do not look +into her eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It stretches from my +window—sunny, French field! Miles away, beneath a Polish sky, I see my +mother's eyes. Unshed tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she calls +to me, "thou wilt be a great musician. Poland will be proud of thee!" +Poland—dear land—proud of Frederic Chopin! My heart is empty. It +aches.</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Nohant</span>, June 1, 1847.<br /> +</p> + +<p>It is over. Life has stopped. A few years more or less, perhaps. But +never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145" href="#Page_145">[145]</a></span> life again. I do not write the words. They hammer at my brain. +She spoke so sharply—and my soul was sick. I did not think she could. +If she had waited—I would not have tarried long, not too long, Aurora. +Hadst thou waited—weary of the burden, the sick burden of my complaint! +Money—I shall work—Waltzes that the public loves—and pays for. +Mazurkas from a torn heart! I shall work—a little while—20,000 francs +to set me free! I will die free!</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, June 10, 1847.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Strange fortune that besets a man! The 20,000 franc paper is in my hand. +I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling and her goodness haunt my gloom. +She only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, Scotch lady! With thy heart of +gold, thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146" href="#Page_146">[146]</a></span> Thy francs lie heavy in +my hand. "Master," she writes my name. She only asks to give. But women +should be gentle, with soft, dark eyes that thrill. The day has closed. +I shall die free!</p> + + +<p class="quotdate"> +<span class="smcap">Stirling Castle</span>, <span class="smcap">Scotland</span>, June 16, 1848.<br /> +</p> + +<p>I am lying in a great chamber of the castle. The house is still. The +guests have creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse voice is hushed. +When I played for them below, my fingers twitched and my heart ached +with the numbness. I could have cried with weariness and pain. The +faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. He has undressed me and laid me +here among the swelling pillows. The light burns fitfully. It dances +among the shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147" href="#Page_147">[147]</a></span> draws near. It peers +into my window. It is Jane's soul—soft and floating wool—and clammy. +My heart is ice—ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me all the day. We +talk of music! Strange, disjointed talk—with gaps of common +sense—hero-worship—and always the flame that burns for me—slow and +still. She has one thought, one wish—to guard my days with sweet +content. And in my soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its way to +the last citadel. I have not long to wait. I shall not cry out with the +pain. Its touch is sweet—like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine +writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes +keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my +<i>salon</i>—shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's +wash-basin—going!—for ten sous—going!" My pictures,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148" href="#Page_148">[148]</a></span> caskets, +tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano +with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady! +Cruel one—my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever—false dawn that +could not stand the sun's deep kiss—Aurora. Unrest—unrest—will it +never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The +silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it +with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from +thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast—upon +this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and +burns—it shall be severed, chord by chord—it shall return to the land +that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists—with my mother's +brow and mouth and chin. Poland that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149" href="#Page_149">[149]</a></span> sings and weeps—sad land. My +heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it +shall rest—at last—rest!</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150" href="#Page_150">[150]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151" href="#Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE</h2> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152" href="#Page_152">[152]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153" href="#Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>"Ho, <i>Tiziano</i>! Ala-ala-<i>ho</i>! <i>Tizi-ah-no</i>!"</p> + +<p>The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the +foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The +moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in +the dark front.</p> + +<p>The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call +again: "What, ho!—Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and +occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, +handsome youth as they drifted past.</p> + +<p>The door at the top of the steps opened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154" href="#Page_154">[154]</a></span> and Titian ran lightly down. He +carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the +cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it +with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant +seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.</p> + +<p>Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor +Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small +instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her +words.</p> + +<p>"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" +He bowed to the man opposite him.</p> + +<p>"Giorgio? Oh—Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big +and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men +joined in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155" href="#Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant +craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous +strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face +of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face +of many pictures; while the big man opposite—her husband—the famous +Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to +attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group +that drew the eyes and held them to-night.</p> + +<p>He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome—known in Venice years +ago, it was whispered—a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the +beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her +red-gold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156" href="#Page_156">[156]</a></span> locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, +dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. +He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves +dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from +the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his +companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite—and +filled with gentle, wondering light.</p> + +<p>Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look +of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak—but +Giorgione stayed him with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! +Halt for the Fondaco!"</p> + +<p>The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose +white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157" href="#Page_157">[157]</a></span> and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly +along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, +Titian, on the big façade to the south, and Zarato and I—" He laid his +hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and +I on the inner court."</p> + +<p>The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, +with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece +of work," he said.</p> + +<p>Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With +three Venetians at the frescos—we shall see, ah—we shall see!" He +laughed again good-humoredly.</p> + +<p>The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear +moonlight.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow Zarato comes to me—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158" href="#Page_158">[158]</a></span> his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, +almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face.</p> + +<p>The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat +staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark +eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly.</p> + +<p>Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me."</p> + +<p>Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't +spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must +wait."</p> + +<p>"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can +wait then—a year, six months—I care not."</p> + +<p>Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, +Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159" href="#Page_159">[159]</a></span> popes and dukes—paint +gold. But never paint an artist—an artist and a gentleman!"</p> + +<p>They laughed merrily and the boat glided on—out into the lagoon and the +broad, flooding moonlight.</p> + +<p>"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, +breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the +opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying +the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.</p> + +<p>The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath +its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift +breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.</p> + +<p>Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he +murmured softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160" href="#Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> + +<p>She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help +it," she said; "it is the music."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry—half cynical.</p> + +<p>Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.</p> + +<p>Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden +water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not +reveal it.</p> + +<p>Violante glanced at him timidly.</p> + +<p>"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the +tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. +Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.</p> + +<p>"<i>Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit</i>," rang out the voice.</p> + +<p>"<i>Qua boir soit—qua boir soit</i>," repeated Violante softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161" href="#Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> + +<p>The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. +Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.</p> + +<p>The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once +more!—Bella!" He clapped his hands.</p> + +<p>Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met—a long, slow +look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.</p> + +<p>Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back +against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over +the voluptuous figure at his side—the snowy tunic and the ruby-red +bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and +wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them—something tender, +almost sweet.</p> + +<p>He leaned forward as the music ceased.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162" href="#Page_162">[162]</a></span> "You shall pose for me," he said +under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture."</p> + +<p>She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.</p> + +<p>Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.</p> + +<p>"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face +and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?"</p> + +<p>"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He +had not removed his eyes from her face.</p> + +<p>Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" +he murmured tragically. "But <i>you</i> will help, Zarato. You will not go +paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half +querulous.</p> + +<p>The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew +his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163" href="#Page_163">[163]</a></span> hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" +His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you—if—I can."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164" href="#Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>"A little more to the right, please."</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice +murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the +sitter to his canvas.</p> + +<p>"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that—ten +minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift +strokes.</p> + +<p>The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face +lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the +tone laughed gently.</p> + +<p>Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too +much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us."</p> + +<p>"I am indebted to you!" said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165" href="#Page_165">[165]</a></span> young man politely. He lifted his hand +with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily +to the console beside him.</p> + +<p>With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with +satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!—Good!" he murmured +under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He +hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall +figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift +decision.</p> + +<p>The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the +Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.</p> + +<p>The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the +studio and its occupant. He might have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166" href="#Page_166">[166]</a></span> listening to pleasant +words—to the sound of a voice.</p> + +<p>"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for +to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.</p> + +<p>The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and +lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You +paint like no other," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. +"They will not call it like Palma, this time—nor like Giorgione, nor +Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled +over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.</p> + +<p>The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have +outstepped them all.... You used them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167" href="#Page_167">[167]</a></span> but to climb on." He moved toward +a canvas across the room.</p> + +<p>"But this—" he laid his hand lightly on the frame—"this was after +Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.</p> + +<p>Titian nodded curtly.</p> + +<p>"It was the model—partly," he said half grudgingly.</p> + +<p>"I know—Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. +"Would she pose for any one—for me, do you think?"</p> + +<p>Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy—Better not! When she gets +into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato—bewitched forever! Look +there—and there—and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases.</p> + +<p>The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad," +he said gravely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168" href="#Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<p>Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've +no idea how I had to fight to keep her out—And, oh, that hair!" He +groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases—"Palma's worse!" he +chuckled.</p> + +<p>The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And +Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly.</p> + +<p>Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her."</p> + +<p>The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and +mechanically turned the leaves.</p> + +<p>The older man eyed him keenly.</p> + +<p>"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young +man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her—except +that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly.</p> + +<p>The young man's eyes were fixed on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169" href="#Page_169">[169]</a></span> the page before him. He held it out, +pointing to a name scrawled on the margin.</p> + +<p>Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that +the light fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" he said +enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>The young man nodded. "An Aldine—I saw that. What does the marking +mean?" He asked the question almost rudely.</p> + +<p>His companion turned the leaves. "It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he +said slowly.... "I've been looking up Violante's pose.—Here it is." He +read the lines in a musical voice.</p> + +<p>A heavy frown had come between the handsome eyes watching him. "You'll +not paint her like that?"</p> + +<p>"I rather think I shall," responded Titian slowly. "She has promised."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170" href="#Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And Giorgione?"</p> + +<p>"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. He trusts her—as I do." He laid +his hand again on the shoulder near him. "I tell you, man, you're wrong. +Believe in her and—leave her," he said significantly.</p> + +<p>The shoulder shrugged itself slightly away. The young man picked up his +hat from the table near by. He raised it courteously before he dropped +it with a little laugh on the dark curls.</p> + +<p>"I go to an appointment," he said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171" href="#Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>A face looked over the balcony railing as the gondola halted at the foot +of the steps. It smiled with a look of satisfaction, and the owner, +reaching for a rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick touch over the +balcony edge.</p> + +<p>It fell at the feet of the young man stepping from the gondola, and +caused him to bend with a deep flush. It touched his lips lightly as he +raised himself and lifted his velvet cap to the face above.</p> + +<p>She smiled mockingly. "You are late," she said—"two minutes late!"</p> + +<p>"I come!" he replied, springing up the steps. In another minute he was +beside her, smiling and flushed, looking down at her with deep, intent +gaze.</p> + +<p>She made a place for him on the divan. "Sit down," she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172" href="#Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>He seated himself humbly, his eyes studying hers.</p> + +<p>She smiled lazily and unfurled her fan, covering her face except the +eyes. They regarded him over the fringe of feathers.</p> + +<p>"Where have you been?" she demanded.</p> + +<p>"With Titian."</p> + +<p>"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold so—!" She laughed musically.</p> + +<p>Zarato nodded. "I go to him to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Has Titian finished?"</p> + +<p>"For the present—He will lay it away."</p> + +<p>"I know," she laughed, "—to mellow!... How did you like it?"</p> + +<p>He hesitated a second. "It was a little rough," he confessed.</p> + +<p>"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173" href="#Page_173">[173]</a></span> "Like a log of wood—or a heap of +stones—or a large loaf of bread."</p> + +<p>He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to him often?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his face. "Not now," she replied.</p> + +<p>He returned the look searchingly. "You are going to?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she assented.</p> + +<p>He still held her eyes. "I don't like it," he said slowly.</p> + +<p>The ghost of a smile came into her face. Her eyes danced in the shadow +of it. "No?" she said quietly.</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>She waited, looking down and plucking at the silken fringe of her +bodice. "Why?" she asked after a time.</p> + +<p>He made no reply.</p> + +<p>She glanced up at him. He was looking away from her, across the gay +canal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174" href="#Page_174">[174]</a></span> His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, and his lip trembled.</p> + +<p>Her glance fell. "Why not?" she repeated softly.</p> + +<p>He looked down at her and his face flushed. "I don't know," he said. He +bent toward her and took the fan from her fingers.</p> + +<p>She yielded it with half reluctance, her eyes mocking him and her lips +alluring.</p> + +<p>He smiled back at her, shaking his head slightly and unfurling the fan. +He had regained his self-possession. He moved the fan gently, stirring +the red-gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe on her bodice. It +rose and fell swiftly, moved in the soft current of air. His eyes +studied her face. "Will you sit for me some day?" he said.</p> + +<p>She nodded without speaking. The breath came swiftly between the red +lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175" href="#Page_175">[175]</a></span> and the eyes were turned away. They rested on the façade of a tall +building opposite, where a flock of doves, billing and cooing in the +warm air, strutted and preened themselves. Their plump and iridescent +breasts shone in the sun.</p> + +<p>Her hand reached for the cithara at her side. "Shall I sing you their +song?" she said, "The Birds of Venus."</p> + +<p>He smiled indulgently. Her voice crooned the words.</p> + +<p>"Sing!" she said imperiously. He joined in, following her mood with +ready ease.</p> + +<p>There was silence between them when the song was done. She sat with her +eyes half closed, looking down at the white hands in her lap.</p> + +<p>He lifted one of them gently, his eyes on her face. She did not stir or +look up. He raised it slowly to his lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176" href="#Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> + +<p>The warm breath stirred a smile on her face. She glanced at him from +under falling lids.</p> + +<p>He dropped the hand and stood up with a half cry.</p> + +<p>"I must go—Violante—I must—go!" He groped to where the doorway +opened, cool and dark, behind them, "I must go," he repeated vaguely.</p> + +<p>She rose and came to him slowly. "You must go," she said softly.</p> + +<p>They passed into the dark, open doorway.</p> + +<p>Below, in the hot sun, the gondola rocked at the foot of the stairs.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177" href="#Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>The noon-bell in the southern turret of the Fondaco chimed softly. A +painter at work on the façade near by looked up inquiringly at the sun. +He smiled absently to himself and, dropping his brushes, descended +lightly from the scaffolding to the ground. He walked away a few +steps—as far as the ground permitted—and turned to look at the work +above.</p> + +<p>"Not so bad," he murmured softly, "—not so bad ... and better from the +water." He glanced at the canal below. A white hand from a passing +gondola waved to him and motioned approvingly toward the colors of the +great wall.</p> + +<p>"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one from another craft. The canal took up +the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo,—Tiziano!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178" href="#Page_178">[178]</a></span></p> + +<p>Titian raised his painter's cap and returned the salute. He stood with +one foot on the parapet, looking down and smiling with easy grace, at +the pleasure-loving crowd below. A man came in sight around the corner +of the Fondaco, walking slowly and looking up at the picture as he came.</p> + +<p>"Well?" Titian glanced at him keenly.</p> + +<p>"Great!" responded Giorgione heartily. "The Judith bears the light well, +and when the scaffolding is down it will be better yet.... Venice will +be proud!" He laid his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder and +motioned toward the throng of boats that had halted below, gazing at the +glowing wall.</p> + +<p>"To-day Titian—to-morrow another!" said Titian a little bitterly.</p> + +<p>"Why care?" responded Giorgione. "Some one to-day told me that my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179" href="#Page_179">[179]</a></span> +Judith, on the south wall here, surpasses all my other work together." +He laughed cordially.</p> + +<p>Titian looked at him keenly. His face had flushed a little under the +compliment. "It is like you not to care," he said affectionately.</p> + +<p>"Care! Why should I care—so that the work is done?" His eyes rested +lovingly on the façade. "It is marvellous—that trick of light," he said +wonderingly.... "You must teach it to me."</p> + +<p>Titian laughed under his breath. "I learned it from you."</p> + +<p>Giorgione shook his head. "Not from me...." he replied doubtingly. "If +you learned it from me, others would learn from me." He stood, looking +up, lost in thought.</p> + +<p>"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian abruptly.</p> + +<p>Giorgione started vaguely. A flush<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180" href="#Page_180">[180]</a></span> came into his face. "He stopped +work—an hour ago," he said.</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes were on his face.</p> + +<p>The open friendliness had vanished. It was turned to him with a look of +trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli—" His speech hesitated and broke +off. He was looking down at the dark water.</p> + +<p>Titian answered the unspoken question. "Yes, I had thought," he said. +His voice was very quiet.</p> + +<p>His companion looked up quickly. "He is with her now, it may be.... I +told them that I should not go home at the noon-bell." He looked about +him slowly—at the clear sky and at the moving throng of boats below—</p> + +<p>"I am going home." He spoke the words with dull emphasis.</p> + +<p>Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181" href="#Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> + +<p>Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and +clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if—if Zarato was not my +friend," he said as he turned away.</p> + +<p>"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who +distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly.</p> + +<p>"Remind him that he is to sit for me this afternoon," he called more +lightly, as the other moved away.</p> + +<p>"I will remember," said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had +disappeared in the maze of buildings.</p> + +<p>Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered +up some tools from a bench near by.... The look in his friend's eyes +haunted him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182" href="#Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for +the appointed sitting with Zarato.</p> + +<p>He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood +back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, +gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, +gleaming eyes formed themselves—Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at +him, pathetic and fierce.</p> + +<p>With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about +him for his cap, and found it at last—on the back of his head. He +settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I +shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183" href="#Page_183">[183]</a></span> gone from +the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio.</p> + +<p>As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together +against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on +the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent +shoulder.</p> + +<p>The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's +eyes—a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him +stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, +gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and +looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said +frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184" href="#Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a +child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat.</p> + +<p>For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, +and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the +studio as if seeking something—and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he +whispered.</p> + +<p>Titian started. "No!"</p> + +<p>Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that +was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze +fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his +face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, +and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185" href="#Page_185">[185]</a></span> He crossed the room swiftly and +touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his +friend's shoulder till the servant returned.</p> + +<p>"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, +slender glass to his lips.</p> + +<p>The man quaffed it—slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" +he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on +his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled—a wan, wintry smile—and +looked at his friend with searching eyes.</p> + +<p>"Where have they gone?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>Titian shook his head. "How should I know?"</p> + +<p>"He said he was going to you."</p> + +<p>"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait—He will be there!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186" href="#Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> + +<p>Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it +exultantly.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean!"</p> + +<p>"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again.</p> + +<p>"You did not——?"</p> + +<p>Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and +his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.</p> + +<p>"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret—I—she—branded him with this." A +piece of heavy iron lay on the sill—the wood near it blackened and +charred. He took it up fondly.</p> + +<p>"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end.</p> + +<p>Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.</p> + +<p>Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187" href="#Page_187">[187]</a></span> +seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Sleep—" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to +take effect.</p> + +<p>Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.</p> + +<p>"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. +"Home! Row for life!"</p> + +<p>A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy +might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit—"Faster!" he called +to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.</p> + +<p>With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On +the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms +hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188" href="#Page_188">[188]</a></span> moved forward, +scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the +closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the +mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent +closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor +was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up—a blotch on +the firm flesh.</p> + +<p>With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the +hand.</p> + +<p>It rested limply in his grasp.</p> + +<p>Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread +the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell +you the portrait—must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." +He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I +must go now." He looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189" href="#Page_189">[189]</a></span> awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"</p> + +<p>He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.</p> + +<p>"You don't know! She has left home——"</p> + +<p>"But not with me."</p> + +<p>The two men stood staring at each other.</p> + +<p>There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a +group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. +The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room +and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened +his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining +floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190" href="#Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet +figure. "He said so."</p> + +<p>"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.</p> + +<p>"Signor—The Signor—Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let +us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her +here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick +up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.</p> + +<p>Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless +figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that +shone in the wet folds.</p> + +<p>"I swear, before God—" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and +fell forward.</p> + +<p>The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the +ungloved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191" href="#Page_191">[191]</a></span> hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from +the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192" href="#Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>"You must go!" said Titian sternly.</p> + +<p>The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his +head. "I have work to do."</p> + +<p>Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it—I tell +you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to +keep them—this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds +them."</p> + +<p>The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death—I +crave it!" His arms fell at his sides.</p> + +<p>His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked +shortly.</p> + +<p>"Giorgione—" The voice was tense. "He shall pay—to the uttermost!"</p> + +<p>"For that?" Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193" href="#Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + +<p>The young man raised it with a scornful gesture.</p> + +<p>"For that"—he spoke sternly—"I would not touch the dog. It is for +her!" His voice dropped.</p> + +<p>Titian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice.</p> + +<p>The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer—as she suffered," he +added with slow significance.</p> + +<p>"Would that content you? Would you go away—and not return?"</p> + +<p>"I would go—yes."</p> + +<p>Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at +last, "the Lord has avenged her."</p> + +<p>The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you +mean?"</p> + +<p>"That she is avenged," said Titian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the +year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194" href="#Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly.</p> + +<p>Titian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!"</p> + +<p>The young man smiled.</p> + +<p>Titian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he +said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the +door."—He waited a breath. "The man is mad!"</p> + +<p>The young man started sharply.</p> + +<p>"Mad!" repeated Titian.</p> + +<p>Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated +softly. The gloved hand trembled.</p> + +<p>A look of relief stole into Titian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he +asked quietly. "Will you go?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!" +he whispered softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195" href="#Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight—you would +be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row +you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you."</p> + +<p>The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he +said humbly.</p> + +<p>"For you and Giorgione and for—her."</p> + +<p>They sat silent.</p> + +<p>"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with +the thought.</p> + +<p>Titian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly.</p> + +<p>The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he +said, "a dozen and more."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Who will finish them?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196" href="#Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded.</p> + +<p>"Shall you?"</p> + +<p>Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he +said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him—I +harbor you."</p> + +<p>The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," he said humbly. He shivered a +little.</p> + +<p>"And not return till I send for you."</p> + +<p>"I will not return—till you send for me!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197" href="#Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> +<h3>VII</h3> + + +<p>Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there +on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm +air.</p> + +<p>A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the +moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among +the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful +eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, +smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none +remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge +or to remember a man—when the waters close over him.... Slowly the boat +drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change +of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198" href="#Page_198">[198]</a></span> color.... "Bride of the Sea," he murmured as the boat swept on. +"Bride of the Sea—There is none like thee in beauty or power!" His +eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to +them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and +supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, +incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man's +eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene.</p> + +<p>With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of +stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and +ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he +disappeared within.</p> + +<p>Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He +sprang forward, holding out his hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199" href="#Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> + +<p>The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," +he said slowly.</p> + +<p>"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the +glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.</p> + +<p>"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I +have not done a stroke since that last night—the night I rowed you out +to the lagoon."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.</p> + +<p>Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first—too strained and +weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them +ruefully. "And then—" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to +finish his pictures.... There has been no time."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200" href="#Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice.</p> + +<p>Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know—He would not +see me—to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for +me. I did the work and asked no questions—for friendship's sake." He +sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.</p> + +<p>"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of +Giorgione—They will name you—Titian!" He laughed bitterly.</p> + +<p>The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." +He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?"</p> + +<p>The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"—with a swift look. "I am +hunted! I cannot wipe away your face<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201" href="#Page_201">[201]</a></span>—as it looked that night. I paint +nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He +laughed shortly and rose to his feet.</p> + +<p>The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I +am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always."</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He +turned away to an easel.</p> + +<p>"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had +not moved from his place.</p> + +<p>Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes."</p> + +<p>"Why not finish that?"</p> + +<p>The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled +among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, +looking at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202" href="#Page_202">[202]</a></span> it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand +reached out for a brush.</p> + +<p>The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.</p> + +<p>"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best +finish it as it stands—I am ready." He moved to his place by the +console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.</p> + +<p>Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps +the pose," he said thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Why?" The question came sharply.</p> + +<p>The painter colored under it. "I had planned—to make much of +the—hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be +simple," he added hastily.</p> + +<p>"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence +behind the words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203" href="#Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> + +<p>Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him +with quick, gleaming lights.</p> + +<p>The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my +feelings are hurt I will tell you."</p> + +<p>The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and +brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed +on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the +picture crept a glow of living color and of light.</p> + +<p>At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more—to-day," he said slowly. +His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.</p> + +<p>The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing +canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.</p> + +<p>"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself +slightly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204" href="#Page_204">[204]</a></span> "I would not part with it—not for all the gold of Venice!"</p> + +<p>The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he +stammered.</p> + +<p>"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is +our secret—hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand."</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes stared at him.</p> + +<p>"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did +it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her—and guided +it...." His voice ceased with a catch.</p> + +<p>Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor +child!"</p> + +<p>The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever—forever." He +repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from +its slender<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205" href="#Page_205">[205]</a></span> chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he +moved. A hand stayed it—the gloved hand.</p> + +<p>There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, +laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.</p> + +<p>Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of +a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm +beside him.</p> + +<p>The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his +arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the +open secret that remains unguessed."</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206" href="#Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="toc_link"><a href="#CONTENTS">[TOC]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207" href="#Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LOST MONOGRAM</h2> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208" href="#Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209" href="#Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>The woman seated in the light of the low, arched window was absorbed in +the piece of linen stretched on a frame before her. As her fingers +hovered over the brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with a look of +satisfaction and lighted the face, making it almost handsome. It was a +round, smooth face, untouched by wrinkles, with light-blue eyes—very +near the surface—and thin, curved lips.</p> + +<p>She leaned back in her chair to survey her work, and her lips took on a +deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. Her face, with a look of +listening, turned toward the door.</p> + +<p>The young man who entered nodded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210" href="#Page_210">[210]</a></span> carelessly as he threw back the +blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the +room.</p> + +<p>She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She +spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?"</p> + +<p>"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from +him. "I met Pirkheimer—we got to talking."</p> + +<p>The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment.</p> + +<p>The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by +the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered +in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look.</p> + +<p>The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift +touch.</p> + +<p>As the man rose to his feet her eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211" href="#Page_211">[211]</a></span> flashed a look at the canvas in +his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him.</p> + +<p>He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips +whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed +one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness +filled his absorbed face.</p> + +<p>She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click. +"Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and +even, and held no trace of resentment.</p> + +<p>He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze +returned to the easel.</p> + +<p>The thin lips drew to a line. They did not speak. She took off her +thimble and laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered up the scattered +skeins of linen and silk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212" href="#Page_212">[212]</a></span> straightening each with a little pull, and +laid them in the case. She stabbed a needle into the tiny cushion and +dropped the scissors into their pocket. Then she rose deliberately, her +chair scraping the polished boards as she pushed it back from the frame.</p> + +<p>He looked up, a half frown between the unseeing eyes.</p> + +<p>She lifted the embroidery-frame from its rest and turned toward the +door. "I have other work to do if I am not to pose for you," she said +quietly.</p> + +<p>He made no reply.</p> + +<p>Half-way to the door she paused, looking back. "Herr Mündler was here +while you were out. We owe him twenty-five guldens. It was due the +fifth." She spoke the words crisply. Her face gave no sign of emotion.</p> + +<p>He nodded indifferently. "I know. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213" href="#Page_213">[213]</a></span> shall see him." The soft whistle +was resumed.</p> + +<p>"There is a note from the Rath, refusing you the pension again." She +drew a paper from the work-box in her hand and held it toward him.</p> + +<p>He turned half about in his chair. "Don't worry, Agnes," he said. The +tone was pleading. He did not look at the paper or offer to take it. His +eyes returned to the easel. A gentle light filled them.</p> + +<p>She dropped the paper into the box, a smile on her lips, and moved +toward the easel. She stood for a moment, looking from the pictured face +of the Christ to the glowing face above it. Then she turned again to the +door. "It's very convenient to be your own model," she said with a +laugh. The door clicked behind her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214" href="#Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> + +<p>He sat motionless, the grave, earnest eyes looking into the eyes of the +picture. Now and then he stirred vaguely. But he did not lift his hand +or touch the brushes beside it. Gazing at each other, in the fading +light of the low window, the two faces were curiously alike. There was +the same delicate modelling of lines, the same breadth between the eyes, +the long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive lips, and in the eyes the +same look of deep melancholy—touched with a subtle, changing, human +smile that drew the beholder. It disarmed criticism and provoked it. +Except for the halo of mocking and piercing thorns, the living face +might have been the pictured one below it. The look of suffering in one +was shadowed in the other.</p> + +<p>There was a light tap at the door and it flew open.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215" href="#Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> + +<p>The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a +sunny smile. "Pirkheimer!" He sprang to his feet. "What now?"</p> + +<p>The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He +nodded toward it approvingly.</p> + +<p>"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes studied the picture. "I got to +thinking it over after you left me—I was afraid you might touch it up +and spoil it—I want it just as it is." His eyes sought his companion's +face.</p> + +<p>The painter shook his head. "I don't know—not yet—you must leave it +with me. It's yours. You shall have it—when it's done."</p> + +<p>"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here—sign." He picked up a +brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to +the painter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216" href="#Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> + +<p>He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly +his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing +locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs +of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny +figures, a date—1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he +stepped back with a little sigh.</p> + +<p>His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll +take it."</p> + +<p>The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said.</p> + +<p>"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I said it—not yet."</p> + +<p>The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse +hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217" href="#Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> + +<p>The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it—not even to you," he +said. His eyes were on the canvas.</p> + +<p>"But it's mine!"</p> + +<p>"It's yours—for friendship's sake."</p> + +<p>The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. +"You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly.</p> + +<p>"Ay, I'll tell Agnes—that it's yours. But not what you paid for it," +added the painter thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was +half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing +from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living +shame!" he muttered under his breath.</p> + +<p>The artist looked up quickly. "What?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218" href="#Page_218">[218]</a></span> +Dürer, you had a free hand!" he broke out.</p> + +<p>The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple +fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded, +smiling.</p> + +<p>The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of +dissent. "Marriage—for a man like you! Two hundred florins—for dowry!" +He laughed scornfully.</p> + +<p>His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.</p> + +<p>The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said. +"Don't be angry."</p> + +<p>The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as +if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.</p> + +<p>"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219" href="#Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I shall finish it," replied Dürer, without looking up.</p> + +<p>The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Dürer." +He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, +my friend." He held out his hand frankly.</p> + +<p>Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Always."</p> + +<p>"And you will never want—if I can help you."</p> + +<p>"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud.</p> + +<p>Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to +it," he said. "It is a promise."</p> + +<p>"I shall hold you to it," laughed Dürer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220" href="#Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved +once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, +looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the +basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed +a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the +mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large +brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track +behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture +mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the +artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush +moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened. +Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221" href="#Page_221">[221]</a></span> sprang to meet it. It +moved swiftly across the monogram—and paused. The artist peered forward +uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another +stroke of the brush—and another—they were gone forever.</p> + +<p>The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor +humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered +in it—hauntingly.</p> + +<p>He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the +picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to +the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Dürer—his work," he said +under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for +him forever."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222" href="#Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on +the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his +treasure—sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the +picture had remained unmoved against the wall.</p> + +<p>Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's +velvet purse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without +number had been executed for him—rings and stones and tapestries, +carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet—till the +Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate +workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Dürer's brush adorned +its walls—grotesque monks and gentle Virgins.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223" href="#Page_223">[223]</a></span> But the Face bided its +time against the wall.</p> + +<p>To-day—for the first time in twenty-five years—the Face of the Christ +was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not +the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white, +lay upon a quiet breast—outside the city wall.</p> + +<p>The funeral cortège had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Dürer had come +directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of +her possessions. It was all hers—the money the artist had toiled to +leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish +guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and +copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had +loved—they were all hers, except, perhaps, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224" href="#Page_224">[224]</a></span> copperplates for +Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas +against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often +begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good +price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed +the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly. +The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well +the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A +sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush +on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's +work—his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate, +strong face—the Christ face—Albrecht's face—at thirty-three.... Had +he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225" href="#Page_225">[225]</a></span> moved away, looking +about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel. +She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath +the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with +curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my +dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it +to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this +day, June 8, 1503, in my home in Nürnberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht +Dürer."</p> + +<p>She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The +discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes, +waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady."</p> + +<p>For a moment she hesitated. Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226" href="#Page_226">[226]</a></span> her fingers opened on the bit of +paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it +with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I +shall receive him here," she said.</p> + +<p>He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He +laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her.</p> + +<p>She returned the look coldly.</p> + +<p>"It is mine!" he said.</p> + +<p>She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the +table beside her.</p> + +<p>He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine. +You see—it is mine!"</p> + +<p>"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had +read the paper."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227" href="#Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> + +<p>With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered +oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round +eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet +brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed, +"you have painted it out. I saw him sign it—years ago—twenty-five +years!"</p> + +<p>She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said +sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases.</p> + +<p>He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I +should know it in a thousand!"</p> + +<p>"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it +sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228" href="#Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> + +<p>He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out +of sight."</p> + +<p>She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with +downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal.</p> + +<p>He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the +same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of +hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the +city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low +room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my +collection. You will want to sell them."</p> + +<p>The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said, +"to Herr Umstätter." A little smile played about the thin lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229" href="#Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sold! Already!" The round eyes bulged at her. "My God!" he shouted +fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if he had left it where you +could!"</p> + +<p>She raised the blue eyes and regarded him calmly. "The estate is without +condition," she said.</p> + +<p>He groaned as he backed toward the door. The canvas was hugged under his +arm. At the door he paused, looking back over the room. His small eyes +winked fast, and the loose mouth trembled.</p> + +<p>"He was a great man, Agnes," he said gently. "We must keep it clean—the +name of Dürer."</p> + +<p>She looked up with a little gesture of dismissal. "It is I who bear the +name," she said coldly.</p> + +<p>When he was gone she glanced about the room. She went over to a pile of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230" href="#Page_230">[230]</a></span> +canvases and turned them rapidly to the light. Each one that bore the +significant monogram she set aside with a look of possession. She came +at last to the one she was searching. It was a small canvas—a Sodom and +Gomorrah. She studied the details slowly. It was not signed. She gave a +little breath of satisfaction, and took up the brush from the bench. She +remembered well the day Albrecht brought it home, and his childish +delight in it. It was one of Joachim Patenir's. Albrecht had given a +Christ head of his own in exchange for it. The brush in her fingers +trembled a little. It inserted the wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying +legs, and overtraced it with a delicate D. She paused a moment in +thought. Then she raised her head and painted in, with swift, decisive +strokes, high up in one corner of the picture, a date. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231" href="#Page_231">[231]</a></span> was a safe +date—1511—the year he painted his Holy Trinity. There would be no one +to question it.</p> + +<p>She sat back, looking her satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Seventy-five guldens to account. It atoned a little for the loss of the +Christ.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232" href="#Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>The large drawing-room was vacant. The blinds had been drawn to shut out +the glare, and a soft coolness filled the room. In the dim light of +half-opened shutters the massive furniture loomed large and dark, and +from the wall huge paintings looked down mistily. Gilt frames gleamed +vaguely in the cool gloom. Above the fireplace hung a large canvas, and +out of its depths sombre, waiting eyes looked down upon the vacant room.</p> + +<p>The door opened. An old woman had entered. She held in her hand a stout +cane. She walked stiffly across to the window and threw back a shutter. +The window opened into the soft greenness of a Munich garden. She stood +for a minute looking into it. Then she came over to the fireplace and +looked up to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233" href="#Page_233">[233]</a></span> the pictured face. Her head nodded slowly.</p> + +<p>"It must be," she muttered, "it must be. No one else could have done it. +But four hundred years!"—she sighed softly. "Who can tell?"</p> + +<p>Her glance wandered with a dissatisfied air to the other canvases. "I +would give them all—all of them—twice over—to know—" She spoke under +her breath as she hobbled stiffly to a huge chair.</p> + +<p>The door swung softly back and forth behind a young girl who had +entered. She came in lightly, looking down at a packet of papers in her +hand.</p> + +<p>The old woman started forward.</p> + +<p>"What have ye found?" she demanded. She was leaning on the stout cane. +She peered out of her cavernous eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234" href="#Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> + +<p>The girl crossed to the window and seated herself in the green light. +Shadows of a climbing vine fell on her hair and shoulders as she bent +over the papers in her hand. She opened one of them and ran her eye over +it before she spoke.</p> + +<p>"They were in the north room," she said slowly. "In the big +<i>escritoire</i>—that big, clumsy one—I've looked there before, but I +never found them. I've been trying all day to make them out."</p> + +<p>"What are they?" demanded the old woman.</p> + +<p>"Papers, grandmamma," returned the girl absently; "letters and a sort of +journal." Her eyes were on the closely written page.</p> + +<p>"Read it," said the old woman sharply.</p> + +<p>"I can't read it, grandmamma." She shook back the soft curls with a +little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235" href="#Page_235">[235]</a></span> sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny—some of the words. And the +writing is blurred and yellow. Look." She held up the open sheet.</p> + +<p>The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work on it," she said brusquely.</p> + +<p>"I have, grandmamma."</p> + +<p>"Well—what did ye find?"</p> + +<p>"It's a man—Will—Willi"—she turned to the bottom of the last +page—"Willibald! That's it." She laughed softly. "Willibald Pirkheimer. +Who was he?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"One of your ancestors." The old mouth waited grimly.</p> + +<p>"One of mamma's?"</p> + +<p>"Your father's."</p> + +<p>"He must have been a nice man," said the girl slowly. "But some of it is +rather—queer."</p> + +<p>The old woman leaned forward with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236" href="#Page_236">[236]</a></span> a quick gesture. She straightened +herself. "Nonsense!" she muttered. "Read it," she said aloud.</p> + +<p>"This is written to Albrecht Dürer," said the girl, studying it, "in +Italy."</p> + +<p>The old woman reached out a knotted hand. "Give it to me," she said.</p> + +<p>The girl came across and laid it in her hand. The knotted fingers +smoothed it. The old eyes were on the picture above the mantel. "Will it +tell?" she muttered.</p> + +<p>"There are others, grandmamma." The girl held up the packet in her hand.</p> + +<p>"What have ye made out?" The old hand closed upon them.</p> + +<p>"He was Dürer's friend," said the girl. "There are letters to him—five +or six. And he tells about a picture—in the journal—a picture Albrecht +Dürer gave to him." She glanced down at the wrinkled, working face. "It +was unsigned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237" href="#Page_237">[237]</a></span> grandmamma—and it was the head of the Saviour."</p> + +<p>The old woman's throat moved loosely. Her hands grasped the stout cane.</p> + +<p>With a half sigh, she rose to her feet and tottered across the room. +"Fool—fool—" she muttered, looking up to the mystical, waiting face. +"To leave no mark—no sign—but that!" She shook the yellow papers in +her hand.</p> + +<p>A question shot into the old eyes. She held out the papers.</p> + +<p>"What was it dated, Marie?—that place in the journal—look and see."</p> + +<p>The girl took the papers and moved again to the window. She opened one +and smoothed it thoughtfully, running her eye along the page. She shook +her head slowly. "There is no date, grandmamma," she said. "But it must +be after Dürer's death. He speaks of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238" href="#Page_238">[238]</a></span> Frau Dürer"—a smile shaded her +lips—"he doesn't like her very well, I think. When did Dürer die, +grandmamma?" She looked up from the paper.</p> + +<p>"April 6, 1528," said the old woman promptly.</p> + +<p>The girl's eyes grew round and misty. "Four hundred years ago—almost," +she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her +hand.</p> + +<p>"It is very old," she said.</p> + +<p>The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. "Take good +care of them," she croaked; "they may tell it to us yet."</p> + +<p>She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door.</p> + +<p>A wooden butler was bowing himself to the floor. "The Herr Professor +Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer," he announced grandly.</p> + +<p>A dapper young man with trim mustaches<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239" href="#Page_239">[239]</a></span> and spotless boots advanced into +the room.</p> + +<p>The girl by the window swayed a breath. The clear color had mounted in +her cheek.</p> + +<p>The old woman waited, immovable. Her hands were clasped above the stout +cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed the advancing figure.</p> + +<p>At two yards' distance it paused. The heels came together with a swift +click. He bowed in military salute.</p> + +<p>The old woman achieved a stiff courtesy and waited. The dim eyes peered +at him shrewdly.</p> + +<p>"I have the honor to pay my respects to the Baroness von Herkomer," said +the young man, with deep politeness.</p> + +<p>The baroness assented gruffly. She seated herself on a large divan, +facing the picture, and motioned with her knotted hand to the seat +beside her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240" href="#Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + +<p>The young man accepted it deferentially. His eyes were on a bowed head, +framed in shadows and leaves across the room.</p> + +<p>"I trust Fräulein Marie is well?" he said promptly.</p> + +<p>"Marie——"</p> + +<p>The girl started vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Come and greet the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer."</p> + +<p>She rose lightly from her place and came across the room. A soft curl, +blown by the wind, drifted across her flushes as she came.</p> + +<p>The young man sprang to his feet. His heels clicked again as he bent low +before her.</p> + +<p>She descended in a shy courtesy and glanced inquiringly at her +grandmother.</p> + +<p>The old woman nodded curtly. "Go on with your papers," she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241" href="#Page_241">[241]</a></span></p> + +<p>The girl turned again to the green window. Her head bowed itself above +the papers.</p> + +<p>The young man's eyes followed them. He turned to the old woman beside +him. "Is it something about—the picture?" he asked.</p> + +<p>She nodded sharply. "Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said, +"ancestor of the von Herkomers—sixteenth century. He was a friend of +Dürer's." Her lips closed crisply on the words.</p> + +<p>He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will +furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly.</p> + +<p>She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture.</p> + +<p>"You have one Dürer." He motioned toward a small canvas. "Is it not +enough?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes turned to it and flashed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242" href="#Page_242">[242]</a></span> disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!" +She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as a copy!"</p> + +<p>"It is signed."</p> + +<p>She glanced at it again. There was shrewd intolerance in the old eyes. +"Do you think I cannot tell?" she said grimly. "I know the work of +Albrecht Dürer, length and breadth, line for line. You say he painted +that!" She pointed a swift finger at the picture across the room. "Have +ye looked at Lot's legs?" Her laugh cackled softly.</p> + +<p>The young man smiled under his mustaches.</p> + +<p>The baroness had turned again to the picture over the fireplace. "But +<i>that</i>—" she murmured softly. "It is signed in every line—in the eyes, +in the painting of the hair, in the sweep from brow to chin. It will yet +be found," she said under her breath. "It shall be found."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243" href="#Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked at her, smiling. Then he raised his eyes politely to the +picture. A slow look formed behind the smile. He half started, gazing +intently at the deep, painted canvas. His glance strayed for a second to +the green window, and back again to the picture.</p> + +<p>The old baroness roused herself with a sigh. She turned toward him. +"Your dissertation has brought you honor, they tell me," she said, +looking at him critically.</p> + +<p>He acknowledged the remark with a bow. "It is nothing," he replied +indifferently. "Only a step toward molecules and atoms."</p> + +<p>The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't understand chemical jargon." Her +tone was dry. "I understand you are going to be famous."</p> + +<p>The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244" href="#Page_244">[244]</a></span> +above the fireplace. "What would you give to know"—he nodded toward +it—"that it is a genuine Dürer?"</p> + +<p>The shrewd eyes darted at him.</p> + +<p>The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless.</p> + +<p>"Give! I would give"—her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of +canvas and gilt and tapestry—"I would give all, everything in the +room"—she raised a knotted hand toward the picture—"to know that +Albrecht Dürer's monogram belongs there." The pointing finger trembled a +little.</p> + +<p>He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great +room. "Everything in this room," he said slowly. "That means—" He +paused, glancing toward the window.</p> + +<p>The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor. +She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245" href="#Page_245">[245]</a></span> leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and +nodded, out of reach.</p> + +<p>He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her +chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek.</p> + +<p>The eyes watching her glowed softly. "Everything in this room—" He +spoke very low. "The one with the rose?"</p> + +<p>The old face turned to him with a look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot +to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. The jaws came together with a +snap. She nodded to him shrewdly.</p> + +<p>The young man rose to his feet. The cynical smile had left his face. It +was intent and earnest. He looked up for a moment to the picture, and +then down at the wrinkled, eager face.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow, at this time, you shall know," he said gravely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246" href="#Page_246">[246]</a></span></p> + +<p>The old eyes followed him, half in doubt, half in hope. They pierced the +heavy door as it swung shut behind him.</p> + +<p>The stiff, dapper figure had crossed the hall. The outer door clanged.</p> + +<p>Against the green window, within, the soft curls and gentle, questioning +eyes of the Fräulein Marie waited. As the door clanged, a rose was laid +lightly to her lips and dropped softly into the greenness below.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247" href="#Page_247">[247]</a></span></p> +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>At a quarter to ten the next morning a closed carriage drew up before +the heavy gate. A dapper figure pushed open the door and leaped out. It +entered the big gateway, crossed a green garden and was ushered into the +presence of the Baroness von Herkomer.</p> + +<p>She stood beneath the picture, her eyebrows bent, her lips drawn, and +her hands resting on the stout cane.</p> + +<p>"Will you come with me?" he asked deferentially.</p> + +<p>"Where to?"</p> + +<p>He hesitated. "You will see. I cannot tell you—now. But I need +you—with the picture." He motioned toward it.</p> + +<p>She eyed him grimly for a second. Then she touched a bell.</p> + +<p>The wooden butler appeared. "Send Wilhelm," she commanded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248" href="#Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> + +<p>Half an hour later the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled +figure into the closed carriage that stood before the gate. A huge, +oblong package rested against a lamp-post beside him, and near it stood +the Fräulein Marie, rosy and shy. The young man turned to her with a +swift gesture.</p> + +<p>"Come," he said.</p> + +<p>He placed her beside her grandmother, and watched carefully while the +heavy parcel was lifted to the top of the carriage. With an injunction +to the driver for its safety, he turned to spring into the carriage.</p> + +<p>The voice of the baroness, from muffled folds, arrested him.</p> + +<p>"You will ride outside with the picture," it said. "I do not trust it to +a driver."</p> + +<p>With a bow he slammed the carriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249" href="#Page_249">[249]</a></span> door and mounted the box. In another +minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly +through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy +parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders.</p> + +<p>From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the +flying streets—a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless +smile.</p> + +<p>"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old woman. "Does he think any one at the +Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Dürer than Henriette von Herkomer?" +She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her.</p> + +<p>Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the flying carriage—on past the New +Pinakothek. An old face peered out upon the marble walls, wistful and +suspicious. A mass of buildings loomed in view.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250" href="#Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The university," she muttered under her breath. "Some upstart Herr +Professor—to tell <i>me</i> of Albrecht Dürer! Fool—fool!" She croaked +softly in her throat.</p> + +<p>"The Herr Doctor is a learned man, grandmamma—and a gentleman!" said a +soft voice beside her.</p> + +<p>"A gentleman can be a fool!" returned the old woman tartly. "What +building is this?"</p> + +<p>The carriage had stopped before a low, square doorway.</p> + +<p>"It is the chemistry laboratory, grandmamma," said the girl timidly.</p> + +<p>The old woman leaned forward, gray with rage, pulling at the +closed door. "Chemistry lab—" Her breath came in pants. "He +will—destroy—burn—melt it!" Four men lifted down the huge parcel from +the carriage and turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251" href="#Page_251">[251]</a></span> toward the stone door. "Stop!" she gestured +wildly to them.</p> + +<p>The door flew open. The young scientist stood before her, bowing and +smiling. She shook a knotted finger at him. "Stop those men!" she cried +sternly.</p> + +<p>At a gesture the men waited. She descended from the carriage, shaking +and suspicious, her cane tapping the pavement before her. The Fräulein +Marie leaped lightly down after her. Her hand had rested for a moment on +the young man's sleeve. A white rose trembled in the fingers. His face +glowed.</p> + +<p>"Is your Highness ready?" he asked. He had moved to the old woman's +side.</p> + +<p>She was standing, one hand on the wrapped parcel, the other on her stout +cane, peering suspiciously ahead.</p> + +<p>"Is your Highness ready?" he repeated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252" href="#Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Go on," she said briefly.</p> + +<p>Four men were in the hall when they entered—the director of the Old +Pinakothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the president of the +university, and a young man with a scared, helpful face, who proved to +be a laboratory assistant.</p> + +<p>"They are your witnesses," murmured the young man in her ear.</p> + +<p>She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on the precious parcel. Swiftly the +wrappings were undone, and the picture lifted to a huge easel across the +room. The light fell full upon it.</p> + +<p>The witnesses moved forward in a body, silent. The old face watching +them relaxed. She smiled grimly.</p> + +<p>"Is it a Dürer?" she demanded. She was standing behind them.</p> + +<p>They started, looking at her doubtfully. The artist shrugged his +shoulders.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253" href="#Page_253">[253]</a></span> He stepped back a little. The director shook his head with a +sigh. "Who can tell?" he said softly. "The marks——"</p> + +<p>The baroness's eyes glowed dangerously. "I did not suppose you could +tell," she said curtly.</p> + +<p>The young scientist interposed. "It is a case for science," he said +quickly. "You shall see—the Roentgen rays will tell. The +shutters—Berthold."</p> + +<p>The assistant closed them, one by one, the heavy wooden shutters. A last +block of light rested on the shadowy picture. A last shutter swung into +place. They waited—in darkness. Some one breathed quickly, with soft, +panting breath. Slowly a light emerged through the dark. The great +picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till it +shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply and slowly in the bluish patina, +at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254" href="#Page_254">[254]</a></span> edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder of the Christ, a +glimmer of shadow traced itself, faintly and unmistakably.</p> + +<p>Confused murmurs ran through the darkness—the voice of the director—a +woman's breath.</p> + +<p>"Ready, Berthold." It was the voice of the Herr Doctor.</p> + +<p>There was a little hiss, a blinding flash of light, the click of a +camera, and blackness again.</p> + +<p>A shutter flew open.</p> + +<p>In the square of light an old woman groped toward the picture. Her +knotted hands were lifted to it.</p> + +<p>Close at hand, a camera tucked under his arm, the laboratory assistant +stood—on his round, practical face the happy look of successful +experiment.</p> + +<p>A little distance away the Herr Professor Doctor moved quickly. The one +with the rose looked up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255" href="#Page_255">[255]</a></span></p> + +<p>High above them all—on the great easel, struck by a ray of light from +the shutter—the Dürer Face of Sorrow—out of its four hundred +years—looked forth and waited in the modern world.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Unfinished Portraits, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + +***** This file should be named 30562-h.htm or 30562-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/6/30562/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Unfinished Portraits + Stories of Musicians and Artists + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: November 29, 2009 [EBook #30562] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +UNFINISHED PORTRAITS + + + + +BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + KATE WETHERILL + A PILLAR OF SALT + THE SON OF A FIDDLER + UNCLE WILLIAM + SIMEON TETLOW'S SHADOW + HAPPY ISLAND + MR. ACHILLES + THE TASTE OF APPLES + THE WOMAN IN THE ALCOVE + AUNT JANE + THE IBSEN SECRET + THE SYMPHONY PLAY + + + + +[Illustration: _The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed._ + Page 253] + + + + + UNFINISHED PORTRAITS + + STORIES OF MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS + + + _BY_ + + _JENNETTE LEE_ + + + _Schubert_ _Titian_ + _Chopin_ _Giorgione_ + _Bach_ _Leonardo_ + _Albrecht Duerer_ + + + _NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS_ + 1916 + + + + + _Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons + Published September, 1916_ + + + + + TO + + GERALD STANLEY LEE + + AND + + "THE GREAT ROAD THAT LEADS + FROM THE SEEN TO THE UNSEEN" + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + _There Was in Florence a Lady_ 1 + + _Thumbs and Fugues_ 29 + + _A Window of Music_ 79 + + _Frederic Chopin--A Record_ 135 + + _The Man With the Glove_ 151 + + _The Lost Monogram_ 207 + + + + +THERE WAS IN FLORENCE A LADY + + + + +I + + +The soft wind of an Italian spring stirred among the leaves outside. The +windows of the studio, left open to the morning air, were carefully +shaded. The scent of mulberry blossoms drifted in. The chair on the +model-stand, adjusted to catch the light, was screened from the glare; +and the light falling on the rich drapery flung across its back brought +out a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped flowers near by, and dark +gleams of old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty; but the two +men in the studio were facing it, as if a presence were still there. + +The painter, sketching idly on the edge of his drawing-board, leaned +back to survey the child's head that developed under his pencil. "She +will not come this morning, then?" he asked almost indifferently. + +The older man shook his head. "She said not. She may change her mind." + +The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing in the face of the +other, and he devoted himself anew to the child's head. "It does not +matter," he said. "I can work on the background--if I feel like working +at all," he added, after a moment's pause. + +The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pair of long +riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glanced toward the easel +standing in front of the painter, a little to the left. "It is barbarous +that you have had to waste so much time!" he broke out. "How long is +it? Two--no, three years last Christmas time since you began. And there +it stands." The figure on the easel, erect, tranquil, in the old chair, +seemed to half shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinished +face. He looked at it severely. The severity changed to something else. +"And it is so perfect--damnably perfect," he said irritably. + +The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement so slight +might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. "You are off for the +day?" he asked, glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a table by the +door. + +"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far as Pistoia. Going to see the new +altarpiece." He took up the hat and whip. He waited, fingering them +indecisively. "She seems to me more fickle than ever, this last month or +two." + +"I see that she is restless." The painter spoke in a low tone, half +hesitating. "I have wondered whether--I had hoped that the Bambino"--he +touched the figure lightly with his foot--"might not be needed." + +The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell. "No, +no such good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only caprice." + +The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appeared in the opening. +"Castino wishes me to say that the musicians wait," said the youth. + +The painter rose and came toward him, a smile of pleasure on his face. +"Tell them that there will be no sitting to-day, Salai," he said, laying +his hand, half in greeting, half in caress, on the youth's shoulder. + +"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and withdrew. + +The painter turned again to the older man. "It was a happy thought of +yours, Zano--the music. She delights in it. I almost caught, one day +last week, while they were playing, that curve about the lips." + +They stood for a moment in silence, looking toward the portrait. The +memory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker across the shaded light. + +"Well, I am off." The man held out his hand. + +The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in his supple +fingers and placed it to his lips. "A safe journey to you, Signor," he +said, in playful formality. + +"And a safe return, to find our Lady Lisa in better temper," laughed the +other. The laugh passed behind the draperies. + +The artist remained standing, his eyes resting absently on the rich +colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friend had +disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He had the look of a man +absorbed in a problem, who has come upon an unexpected complication. + +When the chess-board is a Florentine palace, and the pieces are +fifteenth-century human beings, such complications are likely to occur. +The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that she was not carved +of wood or ivory. But for three years the situation had remained the +same--the husband unobservant, the lady capricious and wilful. She had +shown the artist more kindness than he cared to recall. That was months +ago. Of late he had found scant favor in her sight.... It was better so. + +He crossed to the easel, and stood looking down at it. The quiet figure +on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride and dissatisfaction. He gazed +at it bitterly. Three years--but an eternal woman. Some day he should +catch the secret of her smile and fix it there. The world would not +forget her--or him. He should not go down to posterity as the builder of +a canal! The great picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of +fading. The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay--no +one to pay for the casting. But this picture----For months--with its +rippling light of under sea, its soft dreamy background, and in the +foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished but the Child upon +her arm, the smile of light in her eyes. + +The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband's, to paint +her as Madonna. She had refused to touch the Bambino--sometimes +petulantly, sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny figure lay always on the +studio floor, dusty and disarranged. The artist picked it up. It was an +absurd little wooden face in the lace cap. He straightened the velvet +mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand +and placed the tiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly +against the arm. + +A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneeling in front of +the Bambino. + +"I see that you have supplied my place, Sir Painter," said a mocking +voice. + +He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stood there, +smiling, scornful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy stuff, a gold +thimble-cap on her finger. "It would not make a bad picture," she said +tranquilly, "you and the Bambino." + +His face lighted up. "You have come!" He hastened toward her with +outstretched hand. + +With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes, +I dared not trust you. You might paint in the Bambino face instead of +mine, by mistake." + +She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. The Bambino +slipped meekly through the arm to the floor. + +"Zano told me"--he began. + +"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he would never go. I +really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm." She glanced about +the shaded room. "You manage it well," she said approvingly. "It is by +far the coolest place in the palace." + +"You will be going to the mountains soon?" He saw that she was talking +lightly to cover herself, and fell in with her mood. He watched her as +he arranged the easel and prepared his colors. Once he stopped and +sketched rapidly for a minute on the small drawing-board. + +She looked inquiry. + +"Only an eyebrow," he explained. + +She smiled serenely. "You should make a collection of those eyebrows. +They must mount into the hundreds by this time. You could label them +'Characters of the Lady Lisa.'" + +"The Souls of Lady Lisa." + +The lady turned her head aside. "Your distinctions are too subtle," she +said. Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting disgracefully on its wooden +head. "Poor little figurine," she murmured, reaching a slender hand to +draw it up. She straightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to +her lap, and lay there. Her hands were idle, her eyes looking far into +space. + +The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. "Sit still," he said, +almost harshly. + +She gave a quick, startled look. She glanced at the rigid little figure. +She raised it for a minute. Her face grew inscrutable. Would she laugh +or cry? He worked with hasty, snatched glances. Such a moment would not +come again. A flitting crash startled him from the canvas. He looked up. +The Bambino lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, scattered with +fragments of a rare Venetian glass. She sat erect and imperious, looking +with scorn at the wreck. Two great tears welled. They overflowed. The +floods pressed behind them. She dropped her face in her hands. Before he +could reach her she had darted from the chair. The mask of scorn was +gone. She fled from him, from herself, blindly, stopping only when the +wall of the studio intervened. She stood with her face buried in the +drapery, her shoulders wrenched with sobs. + +He approached her. He waited. The Bambino lay with its wooden face +staring at the ceiling. It was a crisis for them all. The next move +would determine everything. He must not risk too much, again. The +picture--art--hung on her sobs. Lover--artist? He paused a second too +long. + +She turned toward him slowly, serenely. Her glance fell across him, +level and tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay in smiling drops on +her face. The softened scorn played across it. "Shall we finish the +sitting?" she asked, in a conventional voice. + +He took up his brush uncertainly. She seated herself, gathering up the +scattered work. For a few moments she sewed rapidly. Then the soft +fabric fell to her lap. She sat looking before her, unconscious, except +that her glance seemed to rest now and then on the fallen figure in its +fragments of glass. + +For two hours he worked feverishly, painting with swiftest skill and +power. At times he caught his breath at the revelation in the face. He +was too alert to be human. The artist forgot the woman. Faithfully, line +by line, he laid bare her heart. She sat unmoved. When at last, from +sheer weariness, the brush dropped from his hand, she stepped from the +model-stand, and stood at his side. She looked at the canvas +attentively. The inscrutable look of the painted face seemed but a faint +reflex of the living one. + +"You have succeeded well," she said at last. "We will omit the Bambino." + +She moved slowly, graciously, toward the door, gathering the fragile +sewing as she went. He started toward her--suddenly conscious of her +power--a man again. A parting of the draperies arrested them. It was +Salai, his face agitated, looking from the lady to the painter, +inarticulate. + +"The Signor"--he gasped--"his horse--they bring him--dead." + +She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai. +Await your master's commands in the hall below." + +She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. "I trust that you +will make all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, in removing from the +palace. The apartments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. They will +come to honor the dead." + +He stood for a moment stupefied, aghast at her control of practical, +feminine detail; then moved toward her. "Lisa----" + +She motioned toward the easel. "Payment for the picture will be sent you +soon." + +"The picture goes with me. It is not finished." + +"It is well." She bowed mockingly. The little door swung noiselessly +behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. It was looking sideways +at the fallen Bambino amid the shattered fragments on the floor. + + + + +II + + +It was the French monarch. He fluttered restlessly about the studio, +urbane, enthusiastic. He paused to finger some ingenious toy, to praise +some drawing or bit of sunlit color that caught his fancy. The painter, +smiling at the frank enthusiasm, followed leisurely from room to room. +The wandering Milanese villa was a treasure house. Bits of marble and +clay, curious mechanical contrivances, winged creatures, bats and +creeping things mingled with the canvases. Color and line ran riot on +the walls. A few finished pieces had been placed on easels, in +convenient light, for the royal inspection. Each of these, in turn, the +volatile monarch had exalted. He had declared that everything in the +villa, including the gifted owner, must return with him to France. + +"That is the place for men like you!" he exclaimed, standing before a +small, exquisitely finished Madonna. "What do these Milanese know of +art? Or the Florentines, for that matter? Your 'Last Supper'--I saw it +last week. It is a blur. Would that the sainted Louis might have taken +it bodily, stone by stone, to our France, as he longed to do. You will +see; the mere copy has more honor with us than the original here. Come +with us," he added persuasively, laying his hand on the painter's shabby +sleeve. + +The painter looked down from his height on the royal suitor. "You do me +too much honor, sire. I am an old man." + +"You are Leonardo da Vinci," said the other stoutly, "the painter of +these pictures. I shall carry them all away, and you will have to +follow," laughed the monarch. "I will not leave one." He rummaged gayly +in the unfinished debris, bringing out with each turn some new theme of +delight. + +The painter stood by, waiting, alert, a trifle uneasy, it might seem. +"And now, sire, shall we see the view from the little western turret?" + +"One moment. Ah, what have we here?" He turned the canvas to the light. +The figure against the quaint landscape looked out with level, smiling +glance. He fell upon his knees before it. "Ah, marvellous, marvellous!" +he murmured in naive delight. He remained long before it, absorbed, +forgetful. At last he rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an +easel. "Is she yet alive?" he demanded, turning to the painter. + +"She lives in Florence, sire." + +"And her name?" + +"Signora Lisa della Gioconda." + +"Her husband? It matters not." + +"Dead these ten years." + +"And children?" + +"A boy. Born shortly after the husband's death," he added, after a +slight pause. "Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at +sunset." + +"Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original--We shall +see--we shall see." + +"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished." + +"Unfinished?" He stared at it anew. "Impossible. It is perfect." + +"There was to be a child." + +"Ah!" The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes. The portrait +returned the royal look in kind. He broke into a light laugh. "You did +well to omit the child," he said. "Come, we will see the famous sunset +now." He turned to the regal figure on the easel. "Adieu, Mona Lisa. I +come for you again." He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered +out. The mocking, sidelong glance followed him. + + + + +III + + +The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French +window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line +of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the +hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the +room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for +sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture--a woman seated in a +rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life. + +The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A +figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow. +It waited. + +"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter. + +Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire. + +"What does he say of us to-day?" + +The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always +croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, +his face in the shadow still. + +The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile +has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco." + +The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped +a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull +silvery glimmer over it. + +"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's. +I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not +been lonely. Friends are faithful"--he pressed the youth's warm hand. +"His Majesty?"--the voice ended with a question. + +"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how +bright it grows." + +The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise +physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?" + +"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes----" + +"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will +be few bequests. My pictures--they are mine no longer. Should a painter +barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They +are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. +He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could +not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles. +He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking +long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be +the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on +the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said +softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He +gave you back to me. You will be his--his and his children's. I have no +child----At least.... Ah, well--Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona +will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has +rested on my work. Crumbling--fading--nothing finished. I planned so +much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished. +My manuscripts--do with them what you will. I could not even write like +other men--this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling +across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they +fluttered from his fingers. "A man is poor who has few wants. Then I +have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty +name." + +Silence fell between them. + +"There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is +rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her--this +ring--" He slipped it from his finger--a heavy stone, deep green, with +translucent lights. "It was my father's crest. He gave it to my +mother--not his wife--a woman--faithful. She put it on my finger when +she died--a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ... she +has a son.... Tell her...." The voice fell hushed. + +The young man waited, with bowed head. He looked up. He started quickly, +and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded the hands across the quiet +breast. He passed swiftly from the silent chamber, down to the +courtyard, out on the King's highway, mounted and fleet. + +The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gay chanson. His +retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi saluted and drew rein. +He spoke a word in the monarch's ear. The two men stood with uncovered +heads. They looked toward the western windows. The gay cavalcade halted +in the glow of light. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed +in the crimson flood. Within the room, above the gleaming coals, a woman +of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze upon an old man's face. + + + + +THUMBS AND FUGUES + + + + +I + + +"Ready, father--ready!" shouted the small boy. He was standing on the +top step of a flight of stairs leading to the organ-loft of the +Hofchapel, peering in. His round, stolid face and short, square legs +gave no hint of the excitement that piped in his shrill voice. + +The man at the organ looked leisurely around, nodding his big head and +smiling. "Ja, ja, S'bastian--ja," he said placidly. His fingers played +slowly on. + +The boy mounted the steps to the organ and rubbed his cheek softly +against the coat sleeve that reached out to the keys. The man smiled +again a big, floating smile, and his hands came to rest. + +The boy looked up wistfully. "They'll all get there before we do," he +said quickly. "Come!" + +The man looked down absently and kindly. "Nein, S'bastian." He patted +the round head beside him. "There is no need that we should hurry." + +They passed out of the chapel, across the courtyard and into the open +road. For half an hour they trudged on in silence, their broad backs +swinging from side to side in the morning light. Across the man's back +was slung a large violin, in its bag; and across the back of the boy +hung a violin like that of the father, only shorter and fatter and +squarer, and on his head was a huge woollen cap. He took it off and +wiped the perspiration from his white forehead. + +The man looked down at him once more and halted. "Now, but we will rest +here," he said gently. He removed the violin-bag carefully from his back +and threw himself on the ground and took from his pocket a great pipe. + +With a little sigh the boy sat down beside him. + +The man nodded good-naturedly. "Ja, that is right." He blew a puff of +smoke toward the morning clouds; "the Bachs do not hurry, my child--no +more does the sun." + +The boy smiled proudly. He looked up toward the ball of fire sailing +above them and a change came over his face. "We might miss the choral," +he said wistfully. "They won't wait, will they?" + +The big man shook his head. "We shall not be late. There is my clock." +He nodded toward the golden sun. "And I have yet another here," he +added, placing a comfortable hand on his big stomach. + +The boy laughed softly and lay quiet. + +The man opened his lips and blew a wreath of smoke. + +"There will be more than a hundred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you must +play what I have taught you--not too slow and not too fast." He looked +down at the boy's fat fingers. "Play like a true Bach and no other," he +added. + +The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Christoph be there?" he asked after a pause. + +"Ja." + +"And Uncle Heinrich?" + +"Ja, ja!" + +The boy gave a quick sigh of contentment. + +His father was looking at him shrewdly. "But it is not Uncle Heinrich +that will be making a player of you, and it is not Uncle Christoph. It +is only Johann Sebastian Bach that can make himself a player," he said +sternly. + +"Yes, father," replied the boy absently. His eyes were following the +clouds. + +The man blew great puffs of smoke toward them. "It is more than a +hundred and twenty years ago that we came from Hungary," he said +proudly. + +The boy nestled toward him. "Tell me about it." He had heard the story +many times. + +"Ja, ja," said the man musingly.... "He was my great-grandfather, that +man--Veit Bach--and your great-great-grandfather." + +The boy nodded. + +"And he was a miller----" + +He dropped into silence, and a little brook that ran over the stones +near by babbled as it went. + +The boy raised his eyes. "And he had a lute," he prompted softly. + +"Ja, he had a lute--and while the mill-wheel turned, he played the +lute--sweet, true notes and tunes he played--in that old mill." + +The boy smiled contentedly. + +"And now we be a hundred Bachs. We make music for all Germany. Come!" He +sprang to his feet. "We will go to the festival, the great Bach +festival. You, my little son, shall play like a true Bach." + +As they walked along the road he hummed contentedly to himself, speaking +now and then a word to the boy. "What makes one Bach great, makes all. +Remember, my child, Reinken is great--but he is only one; and Bohm and +Buxtehude, Pachelbel. But we are many--all Bachs--all great." He hummed +gayly a few bars of the choral and stopped, listening. + +The boy turned his face back over the road. "They are coming," he said +softly. + +"Ja, they are coming." + +The next moment a heavy cart came in sight. It was laden to the brim +with Bachs and music; some laughing and some singing and some +playing--on fiddles or flutes or horns--beaming with broad faces. + +The man caught up Sebastian by the arm and jumped on to the tail-board +of the cart. And thus--enveloped in a cloud of dust, surrounded by the +laughter of fun-loving men and youths--the boy came into Erfurt, to the +great festival of all the Bachs. + + + + +II + + +"Sh-h! It is Heinrich! Listen to him--to Heinrich!" There were nods and +smiles and soft thudding of mugs, and turning of broad faces toward the +other end of the enclosure, as a small figure mounted the platform. + +He was a tiny man, unlike the others; but he carried himself with a +gentle pomposity, and he faced the gathering with a proud gesture, +holding up his hand to enjoin silence. After a few muttering rumbles +they subsided. + +Sebastian, sitting between his father and a fat Bach, gulped with joy. +It was the great Heinrich--who composed chorals and fugues and gavottes +and--hush! Could it be that he was rebuking the Bachs--the great +Bachs!... Sebastian's ears cracked with the strain. He looked +helplessly at his father, who sat smiling into his empty beer-mug, and +at the fat Bach on the other side, who was gaping with open mouth at the +great Heinrich. + +Sebastian looked back to the platform. + +Heinrich's finger was uplifted at them sternly.... "It was Reinken who +said it. He of the Katherinenkirche has said it, in open festival, that +there is not a Bach in Germany that can play as he can play. Do you hear +that!" The little man stamped impatiently with his foot on the platform. +"He has called us flutists and lutists and 'cellists--" He stopped and +held up a small instrument that he carried in his hand--"Do you know +what this is?" + +A response of grunts and cheers came from the crowd. + +Sebastian stretched his neck to see. It was a kind of viol, small and +battered and torn. Worn ribbons fluttered from the handle. + +The small man on the platform lifted it reverently to his chin. He ran +his fingers lightly along the broken strings. "You know the man who +played it," he said significantly, "old Veit Bach--" Cheers broke from +the crowd. He stopped them sternly. "Do you think if he were alive--if +Veit Bach were alive, would Reinken, of Hamburg, dare challenge him in +open festival?" + +Cries of "Nein, nein!" and "Ja, ja!" came back from the benches. + +"Ja, ja! Nein, nein!" snarled back the little man. "You know that he +would not. He had only this--" He held up the lute again. "Only this and +his mill. But he made the greatest music of his time. While you--thirty +of you this day at the best organs in Germany.... And Reinken defies +you.... Reinken!" His lighted eye ran along the crowd. "Before the next +festival, shall there be one who will meet him?" There was no response. +The Bachs looked into their beer-mugs. The great Heinrich swept them +with his eagle glance. "Is there not one," he went on slowly, "who dares +promise, in the presence of the Bachs that before Reinken dies he will +meet him and outplay him?" + +The Bachs were silent. They knew Reinken. + +Sebastian, wedged between his father and the fat Bach, gulped mightily. +He struggled to get to his feet. But a hand at his coat-tails held him +fast. He looked up imploringly into his father's face--but the hand at +his coat-tails restrained him. "I will promise," he whispered, "I want +to promise." + +"Ja, ja, little son," whispered the father; and he and the fat Bach +exchanged smiles across the round head. + +Heinrich's glance swept the crowd once more.... "You will not promise? +Then let me tell you--" He raised his small hand impressively. + +"There shall come of the Bachs one so great that all others shall fade. +He only shall be known as Bach--he and his sons; and before him the name +of Reinken shall be as dust!" With a hiss upon the last word, he threw +open his arms. "Come!" he said, "take your instrument and play." + +Then fell upon the assembly a series of squeaks and gruntings and +tunings and twinges and groans and wails such as was never heard outside +a Bach festival. And little Sebastian, tugging at his violin, tuned and +squeaked and grunted with the rest, oblivious to the taps that fell on +his small head from surrounding bows. And when at last the tuning was +done and there burst forth the wonderful new melody of the choral, +Sebastian's heart went dizzy with the joy of it. And Uncle Heinrich on +the platform, strutting proudly back and forth, conducting the +choral--his own choral--forgot his anger and forgot Reinken, and forgot +everything except the Bachs playing there before him--playing as only +the Bachs, the united Bachs, could play--in all Germany or in all the +world. + + + + +III + + +The two boys had come to a turn in the road, and stood looking back over +the way they had come. The younger of the two looked up wistfully to the +cherry-blossomed trees overhead. "It is hot, Sebastian!--Let us rest." + +With a smile the other boy threw himself on the grass. The large, flat +book that he carried under his arm fell to the ground beside him, and +his hand stole out and touched it. He had a wide, quiet face, with blue +eyes and a short nose, and lips that smiled dreamily to themselves. As +he lay looking up into the white blossoms that swayed and waited against +the clear blue of the sky, the lips curved in gentle content. + +His companion, who had thrown himself on the cool grass beside him, +watched him admiringly. His glance shifted and rested on the book that +lay on the grass. "What is it?--What is it, Sebastian?" he asked +timidly. He put out an inquisitive finger toward the book. + +Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let be," he said. + +The boy flushed. "I was not going to touch it." + +The other smiled, with his slow, generous eyes fixed on the boy's face. +"Thou art a good boy, Erdman!" ... "It is only thy fingers that itch to +know things." He patted them gently, where they lay on the grass beside +him. + +Erdman was still looking at the book. "Was it your brother's?" he asked +in a half whisper. + +"Christoph's?" Sebastian shook his head. "No, it is mine--my own." + +The soft wind was among the blossoms overhead--they fell in petals, one +by one, upon the quiet figures. + +"Want to know 'bout it?" asked Sebastian, half turning to meet his +companion's eye. + +The boy nodded. + +"It's mine. I copied it, every note--six months it took me--from +Christoph's book." + +"Did he let you?" + +Sebastian shook his head, a grim, sweet smile curving the big mouth. +"Let me?--Christoph!" + +The boy crept nearer to him. "How did you do it?" + +"I stole it--carried it up to my room while the others were asleep--and +did it by the moon." + +"The moon?" + +The boy nodded, laughing. "Didst never hear of the moon, brave boy!" + +Erdman smiled pettishly. "There isn't a moon--always," he said, after a +moment. + +"And that also is true," quoth the boy gravely. "But some time, late or +early, one gets a glimpse of her--if one lies awake to see," he added +softly. + +The other glanced again at the book. "Let me look at it," he pleaded. + +Sebastian smiled and reached over a hand to the book. "Don't touch. I'll +show it thee." He untied the strings and spread it on the ground, +throwing himself in front of it and resting his chin in his hands. +"Come," he said, "I'll show it thee." + +Erdman threw off his heavy cap and bent toward the book, with a little +gesture of wonder. "I heard about Christoph's book--a good many times," +he said softly.... "I didn't ever think I'd see it." He reached out his +hand and touched the open page. + +"Nobody ever saw it," said Sebastian absently. He was humming to +himself. "Listen to this!" he said eagerly. He hummed a few bars. +"That's Buxtehude's--isn't it great!" His face went tumpty-tumpty with +the notes, and the blue eyes shone. "But this is the one I like +best--listen!" He turned over the pages rapidly. "Here it is. This is +Reinken's. 'By the waters of Babylon, by the waters, by the waters of +Babylon.'" He hummed the tune below his breath--and then louder and +fuller.... The clear, sweet soprano of the notes died away softly. "Some +day I shall play it," said Sebastian lingeringly. "Some day. See--here +is the place for the harps! And here are the great horns. Listen!" His +voice droned away at the bass and ran into the swift high notes of the +treble. "Some day I shall play it," he repeated wistfully. + +Erdman's slow gaze was following the page. "I can't read so fast," he +said enviously. + +Sebastian smiled back. "I know it by heart--almost. When the moon was +behind the clouds I waited. I sang them over and over." + +"Very softly," said Erdman, as if seeing the picture of the boy and the +darkened room. + +"Very softly," assented Sebastian, "so that no one should hear. And now +I have them all!" He spoke exultingly. "And next month I shall see +Reinken.... I shall hear him play!" + +The other stared at him. "But Reinken is at Hamburg," he said at last. + +"And that, too, is so," said Sebastian smiling. + +"And we go to Lueneburg----" + +"And we go to Lueneburg!" repeated the boy, with a mocking lilt in his +voice. "And Lueneburg is twenty miles from Hamburg. Hadst thought of +that!" He laughed exultingly. + +The other shook his head. "I don't know what you mean," he said. + +Sebastian was fastening the big violin in place on his back. He looked +up under smiling brows, as he bent to draw the last strap. Then he +touched his sturdy legs with his hand and laughed. "I mean that these +are the horses to carry me to Hamburg and back many times. I shall hear +the great Reinken play!--And I, too, shall play!" he added proudly. + +"Do you never doubt, Sebastian?" asked the other thoughtfully, as they +moved on. + +"Doubt?" + +"Whether you will be a great musician?... Sometimes I see myself going +back--" He paused as if ashamed to have said so much. + +Sebastian shook his head. His blue eyes were following the clouds in the +spring day. "Sometimes I doubt whether I am among the elect," he said +slowly. "But never that I am to be a musician." His full lips puckered +dreamily, and his golden head nodded, keeping slow time. "By the +waters--" he broke out into singing. "Is it not wunderschoen!" The blue +eyes turned with a smile. "It is wunderschoen! Ach--wunderschoen! Is it +not, Erdman?" He seemed to awake and laid his hand affectionately on the +boy's shoulder. + +The other nodded. "Yes, it is schoen," he said wistfully. + +"Come, I will teach it to thee!" + +And the notes of Reinken's choral, "An den Wasserfluessen Babylon," +floated with a clear, fresh sound on the spring morning air, two hundred +years ago, and more, as two charity pupils walked along the road to +Lueneburg. + + + + +IV + + +A tall man with keen eyes and a round stomach stood in the shadow of the +Johanneskirche, lost in thought and humming to himself. Now and then he +took off his glasses and rubbed them vigorously, and put them on again +to peer absently down the street. + +A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue uniform of the Michaelsschule, +rounded the corner, puffing heavily. + +"Ach, Kerlman!" The tall man started forward with a stride. "You are +late." + +The other nodded imperturbably. + +"Ja, I am late. Those boys--I cannot make to hurry." He spoke as if +assigning sufficient reason and wiped his brow. + +A twinkle came into the keen eyes. "And one of them you have lost +to-day," he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle toward the heavy +church that rose behind them. + +The other looked quickly around. + +"That S'bastian--was he here?" he demanded. + +"In there," replied the tall man, smiling. "No, no!" he laid his hand on +his companion's arm as he started forward. "Let be--let be!... We must +help him--that boy. You have not heard him play my organ. Wait!" He held +up his hand.... Music was stealing from the gloomy shadows of the +church. + +"Come in," said the master. He pushed open a low door and they entered +the great church. Far up in the loft, struck by a shaft of light from a +gable in the roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in sound. His face was +bent to the keys as his hands hovered and paused over them and drew +forth the strangely sweet sounds that filled the great building. + +The two musicians below stood looking up, their big heads nodding +time.... Suddenly they paused and looked at each other with questioning +glance. The music was quickening and broadening with a clear, glad reach +of sound, and underneath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that bound the +notes together and vibrated through them. + +"How was he doing that?" whispered the small man excitedly. "You have +taught him that?" + +The other shook his head. + +"Come, we will see." + +Together they tiptoed through the dark church, softly--up to the +organ-loft and peered in. The boy, oblivious to sight and sound, played +on. + +Kerlman leaned far forward, craning his neck. He drew back, a look of +stupefaction in his face. He held up his large thumb and looked at it +soberly. + +"What is it?" whispered the other. + +"You see, Johannes Bohm?" He shook the fat thumb in his companion's +face. "He does it with that!" + +The master peered forward, incredulous. Slowly he crept up behind the +boy, his eyes fastened on the moving hands. His shadow fell on the keys +and the boy looked up. His face lighted with a smile. + +"Go on," said the master sternly. His eyes still watched the hands. +Slowly his big fingers reached over and grasped the thumb as it pressed +lightly on a key. "Who told you that?" he demanded. + +The boy looked down at it, puzzled. Then his face grew a little ashamed +and doubtful. "It is wrong, I know," he admitted. "Yes, it is wrong." + +"Who taught you?" + +"Nay, no one would teach it. I just happened--one day. It makes it so +easy." + +"Yes, I see." The master's voice was curt. + +"I will never do it again," said the boy humbly. + +"No--you might play it for me once--just once, for me," said the master. + +The boy's hands ran lovingly to the keys. They crept along the maze of +sound and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. Shyly the small thumb +darted out and found its key, and filled the great church with the +tremulous, haunting call of note answering note. + +The master bending over the keys wiped his brow and looked at the boy +proudly, with a little wonder in his face. "Good.... Ach--but good, +good!" he murmured softly. + +The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. "May I use +it--sometimes?" he asked, doubting. + +Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. "You may use it." He laughed again. +"All the world will use it!" he said, patting him on the back. "It is a +great discovery. Play more." + +The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master +slipped away. "Come down," he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk +filled the doorway. "Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry +this day." + +Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other +solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their +sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on +the table and regarded it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he said. + +Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling. + +The fat man raised his thumb from the table and twiddled it in the air. +It fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, half impatient, half +laughing. "How is one to do it--such fool tricks! Ja, ja!" + +The keen eyes watching him had a proud look. "You know what he will +be--that boy," he said exultingly. "He will be a great musician!" + +"He will be a great bother," grumbled Kerlman. "First," he checked off +the vices on his fingers--"first, he comes to us three weeks late--three +weeks late--because his brother promises, and takes it back and waits to +die--Bah!" He took a sip of beer and laid out another fat finger. +"Second, he sings two octaves at the same time--two octaves! Did one +ever hear such nonsense! Third, he loses his voice, his beautiful voice, +and sings no more at all." He shook his head heavily. "Fourth, he is +running away to Hamburg to listen--always to Hamburg, to listen to +Reinken, and coming back to be forgiven. Ja, ja! Seven times I have +forgiven him. I think he is making ready now to go once more!" He glared +at his companion. + +Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask you for that to-day," he said, +smiling. + +"Ja! ja--I have thought so." He looked sadly at the four short fingers +resting on the table. "And fifth--fifth--now what is that fifth? Ach, it +is that! That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That crawling, snivelling, +stiff-necked one!" He brought it down with a thump on the table. "To +make me all my days ashamed!" He held up the thumb and shook it +scornfully. + +High up in the Johanneskirche, in front of the big organ, the boy was +playing--with head and hands and heart and feet and thumb--swaying to +the music, lifting it from the great organ till it pealed forth, a +mighty sound, and, breaking from the gloomy church, floated on the still +air.... In the garden across the way, above their mugs, two old, +white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled in the sun. + + + + +V + + +The Katherinenkirche was dark, and very still--except for a faint noise +that came from a far corner of the upper left-hand gallery. The old +verger, moving about in felt slippers below, paused now and then, and +looked up as the sound grew louder or died away. It was like a mouse +nibbling--and yet it was not a mouse. + +The verger lighted a taper and prepared to ascend the stairs. + +He heaved a sigh as he climbed the steep step, throwing the candle rays +ahead of him into the gloom of the gallery. Not a sound. The silence of +death was in the big church.... Muttering to himself, he traversed the +long aisle at the top of the gallery, peering down into the vacant seats +that edged the blackness below. + +Suddenly he stopped. His eye had caught a gleam of something to the left +of the last pillar. He snuffed the wavering taper with his fingers and +leaned forward. A face grew out of the darkness and stood up. + +"What are you doing?" demanded the old man, falling back a step. + +"Eating my supper," said the youth. He held up a handkerchief. In the +dim light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped themselves, and a +generous odor of cheese floated out. + +"In the church!" said the verger, with an accent of horror. + +The youth's face regarded him pleadingly. + +"Come away!" said the old man sternly. + +He led the way down the steep stair, into a high, small room, lighted by +a narrow window over which cobwebs ran. "Here you may eat," he said +laconically. + +With a grateful glance the youth seated himself on the edge of a chair +and opening his handkerchief took out a piece of the dry bread. His +teeth broke it crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as he ate. + +The old man nodded with satisfaction. "That is the mouse," he said. + +The youth smiled faintly. + +"Where do you come from?" asked the verger. + +"From Lueneburg." + +"You walked?" + +The youth nodded. + +"I have seen you before, here." + +"Yes." + +The old man watched him a minute. "You ought to have some beer with +that bread and cheese," he said. "Have you no coppers?" + +The youth shook his head. "Reinken is my beer," he said, after a little. +His face was lighted with a sweet smile. + +The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He limped from the room. Presently he +returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. "Drink that," he +commanded. + +The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. "Ja, +that is good!" he said simply. + +The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In half an hour Reinken comes to play," +he suggested craftily. + +The youth started and flushed. "To-night?" + +"Ja." + +"I did not think he came at night," he said softly. + +"Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the +festival--with no one to hear," he added significantly. + +The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They +brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed. + +The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. "Nein," he said. +"It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you +before--when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come." He put +aside the youth's impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark +stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the +wall he slipped back a panel. + +The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great +organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he +turned, the old man was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his +twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle. + +The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pushing back +the sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell forward on his hands. The +hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the +master was old. Sixty years--seventy--ah, more than seventy. Nine years +ago he was that--at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap. +Seventy-nine--an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival +and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him +and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the +keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps +of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now and then. +But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power. +The boy's heart went from him.... If he might but touch a fold of the +faded gown--seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring +was about him--white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth. +"By the waters, the waters of Babylon; by the waters." The slender, +delicate hands called out the notes one by one. Tears ran down the boy's +face. Gropingly he felt for the door--only to seek a blessing of the +hands.... + +The old verger waited at the foot of the stairs, nodding in the dim +light. He sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes. + +"I want to speak to him," said the youth humbly. "Only a word!" + +The old man hesitated. The music had ceased and a slow step was coming +down the church--an old man's step. + +"Ja. Stand there," he whispered. "It shall be as you wish. Stand there!" +He pushed the youth behind a pillar and stepped forward, his taper held +aloft. + +"Mein Herr," he said softly. + +The organist paused and looked at him inquiringly. His face was very +tired. "What wouldst thou, Wilhelm?" he said gently. + +"It is a young man--" he stammered and paused. + +"A young man?" + +"He would speak with you, Mein Herr--but a word." The old man's voice +waited. + +"Speak with me? Does he bring credentials?" + +"Nay, your honor----" + +The great organist drew his gown about him. "I have not time, Wilhelm. +Many seek me and life runs fast. I have not time." He bowed courteously +and moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold of his robe floated out and +touched the hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden in the dim light. + + + + +VI + + +The choirmaster smiled deprecatingly. He had small, obsequious eyes and +narrow shoulders. "If the gracious Herr would be so good," he said, +shrugging them a little. "The people have assembled." He glanced back +over the fast-filling church and raised his eyebrows a trifle to +indicate the honor. + +Bach smiled gravely. A humorous look came into his eyes. "Let the +service go on as usual," he said quietly. "When it is done, I will +play--if time allows." + +The choirmaster squeezed his moist palms and wiped an anxious brow. "And +that, too--will be well," he murmured gratefully. "It will please the +old organist," he added apologetically. + +Bach nodded his head. "I had thought of that." + +The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked. + +The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile +played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him." + +"He has been a great player--in his day," said the choirmaster. The note +of apology in his voice had deepened. + +"That I know," said Bach shortly. + +"And now it is the people--they will not let him go," murmured the +choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play--every motet and +aria and choral--and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster +wiped his brow. + +"It is a long life," said Bach musingly. A sweet look had come into his +face, like the sunlight on an autumn field. He raised his hand with a +courteous gesture. "Let me be summoned later--at the right time." + +The choirmaster bowed himself away. + +Already the notes of the great organ filled the church. It was Reinken's +touch upon the keys--feeble and tremulous here and there--but still the +touch of the master. + +With bent head Bach moved to a place a little apart and sat down. +Curious glances followed him and whispers ran through the church, coming +back to gaze at the severe, quiet face, with its look of sweetness and +power. + +He was unconscious of the crowd. His thoughts were with the old man +playing aloft--the thin, serene face--the wrinkled hands upon the +keys--twenty years.... The time had come--at last.... The music stole +through his musings and touched him. He lifted his face as the sound +swept through the church. The fire and strength of youth had gone from +the touch, but something remained--something inevitable and gentle that +soothed the spirit and lifted the heart--like the ghost of a soul +calling to itself from the past. + +Bach started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. It was the choirmaster, +small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him blindly. + +At the top of the stairs the choirmaster turned and waited for him. "At +last we have the honor. Welcome to the greatest master in Germany!" he +said smoothly, throwing open the door. + +Without a word Bach brushed past him. His eye sought the great organ. +The master had left the bench and sat a few steps below, leaning +forward, his hands clasped on his cane, his white head nodding +tremblingly above it. Far below the words of the preacher droned to a +close, and the crowd stirred and craned discreet necks. + +Quietly the organist slipped into the vacant place. The Bach festival +danced before him.... Uncle Heinrich on the platform--"The great +Reinken--will no one of you promise?" His father's face smiling, his +father's hand on his head.... Slowly his hands dropped to the keys. + +The audience settled back with a sigh. At last they should hear him--the +great Bach. + +The silence waited, deep and patient and unerring, as it had waited a +decade--the touch of this man. A sound crossed it and the audience +turned bewildered faces. Question and dissent and wonder were in +them.... Not some mighty fugue, as they had hoped--not even an aria, but +a simple air from a quaint, old-fashioned choral,--"By the waters, the +waters of Babylon." They looked at one another with lifted brows. +Reinken's choral!--and played with Reinken's very touch--a gentle, +hurrying rhythm ... as Reinken used to play it--when he was young.... In +a moment they understood. Tears stood in bewildered eyes and a look of +sweet good-will swept the church. He had given back to them their own. +Their thought ran tenderly to the old man above, hearkening to his own +soul coming to him, strong and swift and eternal, out of the years. +Underneath the choral and above it and around, went the soul of Bach, +steadfast and true, wishing only to serve, and through service making +beautiful. He filled with wonder and majesty and tenderness the simple +old choral. + +A murmur ran through the church, a sound of love and admiration. And +above, with streaming eyes, an old man groped his way to the organ, his +hands held out to touch the younger ones that reached to him. "I thought +my work had died," he said slowly, "Now that it lives, I can die in +peace." + + + + +A WINDOW OF MUSIC + + + + +I + + +"About so high, I should think," said the girl, with a swift twinkle. +She measured off a diminutive man on the huge blue-and-white porcelain +stove and stood back to survey it. "And about as big," she added +reflectively. + +Her sister laughed. The girl nodded again. + +"And _terribly_ homely," she said, making a little mouth. Her eyes +laughed. She leaned forward with a mysterious air. "And, Marie, his coat +is green, and his trousers are--white!" + +The two girls giggled in helpless amusement. They had a stolid German +air of family resemblance, but the laughing eyes of the younger danced +in their round setting, while the sleepy blue ones of the older girl +followed the twinkling pantomime with a look of half protest. + +"They were in the big reception-room," went on the girl, "and I bounced +in on them. Mamma Rosine was giving him the family history--you and me." + +They giggled again. + +The younger one drew down her face and folded her hands in matronly +dignity, gazing pensively at the blue-and-white stove, her head a little +to one side. + +"My own voice is alto, Herr Schubert, and my daughter Caroline's; but my +daughter Marie has a _beautiful_ soprano." She rolled her eyes, with an +air of resigned sentiment, and shook the bobbing black curls gently from +side to side. "And he just twiddled his thumbs like this, and grunted." +She seized her sister around her plump waist and shook her vigorously. +"Don't you _see_ it?" she demanded. + +The older girl laughed hysterically, with disturbed eyes. + +"Don't, Cara!" she protested. + +The dark eyes bubbled again. + +"And his hair curls as tight--" She ran a hand along her rumpled curls, +then a look of dismay crossed the laughing face. She subsided into a +chair and folded her hands meekly. The little feet, in their stout +ankle-ties, swung back and forth beneath the chair, and the round, +German face assumed an air of wholesome stupidity. + +Her sister, whose slow glance had followed hers, gave a little gasp, and +sank into a chair on the opposite side of the stove, in duplicate +meekness. + +The door at the other end of the room had swung open, and a tall woman +swept in, followed by a diminutive figure in green coat and white +trousers. A pair of huge spectacles, mounted on a somewhat stumpy nose, +peered absently from side to side as he approached. + +"My daughters, Herr Schubert," said the tall lady, with a circumflex +wave of her white hand that included the waxlike figures on each side +the stove. + +They regarded him fixedly and primly. + +His glance darted from one to the other, and he smiled broadly. + +"I haf seen the young _Fraeulein_ before," he said, indicating the +younger with his fat hand. + +The dark, round eyes gazed at him expressionless. His spectacles +returned the gaze and twinkled. + +"She has come into the reception-room while you were explaining about +the voice of Fraeulein Marie," he said, with a glance at the other +sister. + +The waxlike faces shook a little. + +The lady regarded them severely. + +"She is only eleven," she murmured apologetically to the little man. + +"Ja! So?" he muttered. His glance flashed again at the immovable face. + +"Caroline, my child, come here," said her mother. + +The child slipped down from the stiff chair and crossed to her mother's +side. Her little hands were folded, and her small toes pointed primly +ahead. + +"My youngest daughter, Herr Schubert," said the lady, slipping an arm +around the stiff waist. "Caroline, this is your new music tutor, Herr +Schubert." + +The child bobbed primly, and lifted a pair of dark, reflective eyes to +his face. + +His own smiled shrewdly. + +"She will be a good pupil," he said; "it is the musical type." The green +coat and white trousers bowed circumspectly to the small figure. + +"Now, Marie"--the tall lady shook out her skirts--"Herr Schubert will +try your voice. But first, Herr Schubert, will you not give us the +pleasure?" She motioned politely toward the piano, and sank back with an +air of fatigued sentiment. + +He sat down on the stool and ran his white, fat fingers through his +curling hair. It bristled a little. The fingers fell to his knees, and +his big head nodded indecisively. Then it was thrown back, and the +fingers dropped on the keys: the music of a Beethoven sonata filled the +room. + +The grand lady forgot her sentiment, and the little waxlike figures gave +way. Their eager, tremulous eyes rested wonderingly on the broad back +of the player. + +The white fingers had dropped on the keys with the lightness of a +feather. They rose and flashed and twinkled, and ran along the keyboard +with swift, steel-like touch. The door at the end of the room opened +softly. A tall man entered. He looked inquiringly at the grotesque +green-and-white figure seated before the piano, then his glance met his +wife's, and he sank into a big chair by the door, a pleased look on his +dark face. The younger child glanced at him shyly. He returned the look +and smiled. The child's face brightened. + +The door opened again, and a slight figure stood in the doorway. He +looked approvingly toward the piano, and dropped into a chair at the +other side of the door, twirling his long, light mustaches. + +The player, wrapped in sound, was oblivious to the world outside. The +music enveloped him and rose about him, transfiguring the plain, squat +figure, floating above the spectacled face and crisp, curling locks. His +hearers glanced approvingly at one another now and then, but no one +spoke or moved. Suddenly they were aware that a new mood had crept into +the notes. Quick, sharp flashes of fear alternated with passages of +clear, sunlit strength, and underneath the changing melody galloping +hoof-beats rose and fell. + +The dark-eyed child sat poised forward, her hands clasped about her +knees, her tremulous gaze fixed on the flying fingers. She started and +caught her breath sharply. Faster and faster thudded the hoofs; the note +of questioning fear beat louder, and into the sweet, answering melody +crept a note of doubt, undefined and terrible, a spirit echo of the +flying hoofs. It caught up question and answer, and turned them to +sharp, swift flight. The pursuing hoofs struck the sound and broke it; +with a cry the child leaped to her feet. Her hands were outstretched, +and her face worked. The man by the door turned slightly. He held out a +quiet, imperious hand, and the child fled across the room, clasping the +hand in both her own, and burying her face in his shoulder. The swift +sound was upon them, around them, over them, sweeping past, whirling +them in its leaping, gigantic grasp. It hesitated a second, grew +strangely sweet and hushed, and dropped through a full, clear octave on +a low note. It ceased. The air quivered. The player sat motionless, +gazing before him. + +The dark man sprang to his feet, his face illumined, the child clinging +to his hand. He patted the dark curls carelessly as he flashed a smile +to the young man at the other side of the room. + +"That's mine, Schoenstein," he said exultantly; "your tenor voice won't +carry that." + +The other nodded half grudgingly. + +They were both looking toward the player. He swayed a little on the +stool, stared at the ceiling a moment, and swung slowly about, blinking +uncertainly. + +The older man stepped forward, holding out a quick hand. + +"Wunderschoen!" he said warmly. "What is it? Are there words to it? Can +you get it for me?" + +The tiny man seemed to shrink a little. He put out his fat hand and +waited a moment before he spoke. The full, thick lips groped at the +words. + +"It is--it is something--of my own," he said at last. + +They crowded about him, questioning and delighted. + +"Have you published it? What is it?" + +"'Der Erlkoenig,'" said Schubert shortly. The child's face quivered. + +"I know," she said. + +Her father glanced down at her, smiling. + +"What do you know?" he said gently. + +"I read it," said the child, simply. She shivered a little. "The Erlking +carried him off," she said. She covered her face, suddenly in tears. She +was quivering from head to foot. + +The count glanced significantly at his wife. She came forward and laid +her hand on the child's shoulder. + +"Come, Caroline. Come, Marie," she said. "Later, Herr Schubert, I shall +have the pleasure of thanking you." She swept from the room. + +The three men remained, looking a little uncomfortably toward the closed +door. + +The count shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the musician. + +"A very impressionable child," he said lightly. + +"A very unusual child," returned the small man gravely. He was blinking +absently at the count's dark face. "She has the temperament," he +murmured softly; "she will learn." + +The count beamed on him. + +"We depend on you to teach her," he said suavely. "You will go with us +next week to Zelitz?" + +The young man bowed uncertainly. His full lips smiled doubtfully. "It is +an honor," he said, "but I must work. There is not time to lose. I must +work." He moved his big head from side to side and twirled his fingers. + +The count smiled genially. + +"It shall be arranged--a little house by yourself, apart from the +castle--a piano, absolute quiet, lessons only by your own arrangement." +He spoke quietly, in the tone of a superior granting terms. + +The thick lips opposite him were puckering a little, and the eyes behind +the great spectacles blinked mistily. + +"I must have time," repeated the little man--"time to think of it." + +The count's face clouded a shade. + +"We depend on you," he said. The tone had changed subtly. It was less +assertive. "With the Baron von Schoenstein--" he motioned toward his +companion; the two young men bowed slightly--"with the baron we have a +fine quartet, and with you to train us--oh, you _must_ come!" His face +broke into a winning smile. + +The young man smiled in return. + +"I will come," he said; "but--free," he added. + +"Free as the wind," assented the count easily. The note of patronage was +gone. + +A big sunny smile broke over the musician's face. It radiated from the +spectacles and broadened the wide mouth. + +"_Ach!_ We shall do great things!" he announced proudly. + +"Great things," assented the count. "And 'Der Erlkoenig'--I must have +'Der Erlkoenig.' Bring it with you." + +"'Der Erlkoenig' shall be yours," said Schubert grandly. There was the +air of granting a royal favor in the round, green-and-white little +figure as it bowed itself from the room. + +In the hall he stumbled a little, looking uncertainly about. A small +figure glided from a curtained window and approached him timidly. + +"Your hat is on the next landing, Herr Schubert," she said. + +He looked down at her. His big face flushed with pleasure. "You like my +music," he said bluntly. + +She shook her head gravely. + +"It is terrible," she replied. + +The spectacles glared at her. + +"It hurts me here." She raised a small, dark hand to her chest. + +The musician's eyes lighted. + +"That is right," he said simply; "ja, that is right--it hurts." + +They stood looking at each other in the dim light. The child's eyes +studied the big face wistfully. + +"I wish you would never play it again." + +"Not play my 'Erlkoenig!'" He glared at her. + +She nodded slowly. + +"Never," she said. + +He waited a moment, looking at her sternly. He pushed his spectacles far +up on the short curls and rubbed his nose vigorously. + +The child's eyes waited on the queer, perturbed face. She gave a quick +little sigh. Her lips had parted. + +He looked down with a sudden big smile. + +"I will never play it for you again," he said grandly. The spectacles +descended swiftly, the door banged behind him, and the child was left +alone in the great dim hall. + + + + +II + + +The heat of the day was nearly spent, but the leaves of the oaks hung +motionless. The two young men walking beneath them had bared their +heads. One of them glanced up now and then, as if looking for coolness +in the green canopy. + +"It will rain before night," said the baron, casually, noting the +glance. His lithe figure, in its white suit and blue tie, showed no sign +of heat or fatigue. + +The musician, puffing beside him, wiped a handkerchief across his warm +face. + +"Ja, it will rain," he assented hopefully. + +The baron glanced at him, smiling. + +"You find ten miles a good stretch," he remarked. "We went too far, +perhaps." + +"Nein, not too far. We have had great talk," responded Schubert. His +face under its mask of perspiration shone gloriously. He glanced down a +little ruefully at his short, fat legs in their white casings. "But my +legs they do not talk," he announced naively. "Ja, they are very weary, +perhaps; but my soul is not weary." He struck his breast a resounding +blow with the palm of his hand and straightened his short body. + +The baron laughed musically. + +A low, sweet sound, stealing among the oaks, answered the laugh. They +stopped short, looking at each other. The sound came again, a far-off, +haunting peal, with a little catch and sob in its breath. + +They stole swiftly forward on tiptoe. Among the trees a roof and the +outline of a small building glimmered. It was covered with dark ivy. +Smoke came from the chimney, and through the open window drifted the +strange, alluring sound. + +"The house of the little folk of the wood," whispered Schubert, pressing +forward. + +"The wash-house," returned the baron, with a laugh. + +The sound had ceased. The wood, in the soft heat, was very still. + +"It is Marka," said the baron, glancing toward the house. "Marka has +charge of the linen. I heard her the other day, in one of the corridors, +singing; but Fritz hushed her up before she'd begun. She's a +Hungarian----" + +"Hush!" Schubert lifted a finger. + +The music had begun again. The sadness was gone from it. It laughed and +smiled to itself, and grew merry in a sweet, shy fashion that set the +air about them astir in little rippling runs. + +Schubert had started forward. + +"I must have it!" he said impetuously. + +"Take care!" warned Schoenstein; "she is a witch." + +The musician laughed, stealing away among the tree-trunks. He moved +softly forward, his short fingers fumbling at his pockets. A torn +envelope and the stub of a pencil rewarded the search. His face lighted +as he grasped the pencil more firmly in his fingers, moistening it at +his thick lips; he approached the open window. + +He peered uncertainly into the dim room. By the fireplace stood a lithe, +quick figure, sorting the pile of linen at her side. As she lifted each +delicate piece she examined it for holes or rents. Careless little +snatches of song played about her lips as she worked. + +The torn envelope rested on the sill, and the stubby pencil flew across +its surface. The big face of the musician, bent above it, was alight +with joy. The sound ceased, and he straightened himself, pushing back +the hat from his brow, and gazing fondly at the little dots on the torn +bit of paper. + +The girl looked up with a start. The shadow had fallen on her linen. She +gazed with open, incredulous lips at the uncouth figure framed in the +window. + +A broad smile wreathed the big face. + +"Go on, Marka," he said. He nodded encouragement. + +She looked down at the pillow-slip in her hands, and back again to the +face in the window. The linen slip was plaited uncertainly in her +fingers. + +"Go on," said Schubert peremptorily. "You were singing. What was it, +that tune? Go on." + +She looked up again with bold shyness, and shook her head. + +The face glared at her. + +She smiled saucily, and, putting two plump hands into her apron pockets, +advanced toward the window. Her steps danced a little. + +Franz stared at the vision. He took off his spectacles and rubbed them, +blinking a little. + +"Waugh!" he said. + +She laughed musically. + +He replaced the spectacles, and looked at her more kindly. + +She was leaning on the other side of the casing, her arms folded on the +sill. Her saucy face was tilted to his. + +He bent suddenly, and kissed it full on the mouth. + +She started back, fetching him a ringing slap on the cheek. + +"You ugly thing!" she said. She laughed. + +Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a pleased smile on his lips. + +"You're too ugly to look at," said the girl promptly. + +He looked down at her and smiled. + +"That tasted good," he said. + +She pouted a little and glanced at the door. + +His glance followed hers. + +"Sing me some more," he suggested craftily. + +She threw back her head, and her lips broke into a strange, sweet sound. +The dark eyes were half veiled, and her full throat swelled. + +The wood about them darkened as she sang. Swift birds flashed by to +their nests, and the green leaves quivered a little. A clash broke among +the tree-tops; they swayed and beat heavily, and big drops fell. The +girl's eyes flashed wide. The song ceased on her lips. She glanced at +the big drops on the sill and then at the open door. + +"Come in," she said shyly. + +He opened the door and went in. + + + + +III + + +"We feared that you were not coming, Herr Schubert," said the countess +suavely. + +The group had gathered in the music-room.... The storm had ceased, and a +cool breeze came through the window. Outside in the castle grounds dim +lights glimmered. + +The young man advanced into the group a little awkwardly, rubbing his +eyes as if waking from a dream. + +The baron, standing by the piano, glanced at him sharply under lowered +lids. His lips took on a little smile, not unkind, but full of secret +amusement. + +The musician passed him without a glance, and, seating himself at the +piano, threw back his head with an impatient gesture. He turned swiftly +the leaves of music that stood on the rack before him. + +"Sing this," he said briefly. + +He struck a few chords, and they gathered about him, taking up their +parts with a careless familiarity and skill. It was Haydn's "Creation." +They had sung it many times, but a new power was in it to-night. The +music lifted them. The touch on the keys held the sound, and shaped it, +and filled it with light. + +When it was finished they glanced at one another. They smiled; then they +looked at the player. He sat wrapped in thought, his head bowed, his +fingers touching the keys with questioning touch. They moved back +noiselessly and waited. When he was like this, they did not disturb him. + +The melody crept out at last, the strange, haunting Hungarian air, with +unrest and sadness and passion and sweetness trembling through it. + +The baron started as he heard it. He moved carelessly to the window and +stood with his back to the room, looking out. + +The countess looked up with a startled air. She glanced inquiringly +toward her husband. He was leaning forward, a look of interest on his +dark face. The child at his knee shrank a little. Her eyes were full of +a strange light. On the opposite side of the room her sister Marie sat +unmoved, her placid doll eyes resting on the player with a look of +gentle content. + +The passionate note quickened. Something uncanny and impure had crept +into it. It raised its head and hissed a little and was gone, gliding +away among the low notes and losing itself in a rustling wave of +sound.... The music trembled a moment and was still; then the passion +burst in a flood upon them. Dark chasms opened; strange, wild fastnesses +shut them in; storm and license and evil held them. Blinding flashes +fell on them. Slowly the player emerged into a wide sunlit place. The +music filled it. Winds blew from the four quarters to meet it, and the +air was full of melody. + +The count stirred a little as the last notes fell. + +"A strange composition," he said briefly. + +The child at his knee lifted her head. She raised a tiny hand and +brought it down sharply, her small face aglow with suppressed anger. + +"It was not good!" she said. + +The player turned to look at her. His big face worked strangely. + +"No, it was not good," he said. "I shall not play that again. But it is +great music," he added, with a little laugh. + +The count looked at him shrewdly. He patted the child's trembling hand. + +"Now," he said soothingly, "something to clear away the mists! 'Der +Erlkoenig,' We have never had it; bring it out." + +Schubert hesitated an instant. He glanced at the child. + +"That music--I have it not, Herr Count--I left it in Vienna." + +The count moved impatiently. + +"Play it from memory," he said. + +The musician turned slowly to the piano. + +The child's eyes followed him. She shivered a little. + +He swung back with a swift gesture, feeling absently in his pockets. + +"A piece of tissue-paper," he murmured. He had extracted a small comb +from one of his pockets. He regarded it thoughtfully. "If I had one +little piece of paper--" He looked about him helplessly. + +"There is some in the music-rack, Marie. Find it for him," said the +count. + +The girl found it and laid it in his hand. + +He turned back to the piano, adjusting and smoothing it. His broad back +was an effective screen. The group waited, a look of interest on their +faces. + +Suddenly he wheeled about, his hands raised to his mouth, the comb, +thinly covered with tissue-paper, at his lips, and his fat cheeks +distended. His eyes behind the big spectacles glowed portentously. + +They gazed at him in astonishment. + +He drew a full breath and drove it forth, a lugubrious note. With +scowling brows and set face he darted the instrument back and forth +across his puckered lips. It wailed and shrieked, and out of the noise +and discord emerged, at a galloping trot, "Der Erlkoenig!" + +The child, who had been regarding him intently, threw back her head, and +a little laugh broke from her lips. Her face danced. She came and stood +by the player, her hand resting on his knee. + +Herr Schubert puffed and blew, and "The Erlking" pranced and thumped. +Now and then he stumbled and fell, and the fugitives flew fast ahead. + +The player's face was grave beyond belief, filled with a kind of fat +melancholy, and tinged with tragic intent. + +The faces watching it passed from question to amusement, and from +amusement to protest. + +"Nein, nein, mein Herr!" said the countess, as she wiped her mild blue +eyes and shook her blond curls. "Nicht mehr! nicht mehr!" + +With a deep, snorting sob the sound ceased. The comb dropped from his +lips, and the player sat regarding them solemnly. A smile curved his big +lips. + +"Ja," he said simply, "that was great music. I have made it myself, that +music." + +With laughter and light words the party broke up. At a touch from the +count the musician lingered. The others had left the room. + +The count walked to the open window and stood for a moment staring into +the darkness. Then he wheeled about. + +"What was it you played?" he said swiftly. + +"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert briefly. + +The count looked incredulous. + +"It was your own," he said. + +"Partly," admitted the musician. + +The count nodded. + +"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late----" + +Schubert shrugged his shoulders. + +"I told the child--you heard--I cannot play it again, that music." + +The count laughed lightly. + +"As you like." He held out a hand. "Good night, my friend," he said +cordially. "You are a strange man." + +The grotesque, sensitive face opposite him quivered. The big lips +trembled a little as they opened. + +"I am _not_ a strange man," said Schubert vehemently. "That music--it +was--the devil!" + +The count laughed again lightly. He held out his hand. + +"Good night," he said. + + + + +IV + + +A soft haze hung over Zelitz. The moonlight, filtering through it, +touched the paths and shrubs with shifting radiance and lifted them out +of shadow. Under the big trees the darkness lay black, but in the open +spaces it had given way to a gray, elusive whiteness that came and went +like a still breathing of the quiet night. + +A young girl, coming down one of the winding paths, paused a moment in +the open space to listen. The hand that held her trailing, shimmering +skirts away from the gravel was strong and supple, and the face thrown +back to the moonlight wore a tense, earnest look; but the dark eyes in +their curving lids were like a child's eyes. They seemed to laugh +subtly. It may have been that the moonlight shifted across them. + +A young man, standing in the shadow of the trees, smiled to himself as +he watched her. He stepped from beneath the trees and crossed the open +space between them. + +The girl watched him come without surprise. + +"It is a beautiful night, Herr Schubert," she said quietly as he stood +beside her. + +"A wonderful night, my lady," he answered softly. + +She looked down at him. + +"Why are you not in the castle, playing?" she demanded archly. + +"The night called me," he said. + +She half turned away. + +He started forward. + +"Do not go," he breathed. + +She paused, looking at him doubtfully. + +"I came to walk," she said. She moved away a few steps and paused again, +looking back over her shoulder. "You can come----" + +He sprang to her side, and they paced on in silence. + +She glanced at him from under her lids. + +His big face wore a radiant, absent-minded look. The full lips moved +softly. + +"What are you thinking of?" she said swiftly. + +He flushed and came back to her. + +"Only a little song; it runs in my head." + +"Hum it to me," she commanded. + +He flushed again and stammered: + +"Nein, nein; it is not yet born." + +Her eyes were on the shifting light. + +"Will you play it to me when it is done?" she asked softly. + +"You know that I will." + +She waited a moment. + +"You have never dedicated a song to me," she said slowly. "There are +the four to my father--but he is the count; and the one last year for +Marie--why to Marie?--and one for them all. But not one least little +song for me!" The words had dropped under her breath. Her dark eyes were +veiled. No one could say whether they laughed now. + +He looked up with a swift, brusque gesture. + +"They are all yours; you know it." The low voice rebuked her gently. +"For six years they are yours--all that I have done." The face was +turned toward her. It was filled with pleading and a kind of gentle +beauty, clumsy and sweet. + +She did not look at it. + +"There is one that I should like to hear," she said musingly. "You +played it once, years ago, on a comb. I have not heard it since." She +laughed sweetly. + +Schubert smiled. The hurt look stole from his eyes. + +"You will hear it--my 'Erlkoenig'?" he demanded. + +She nodded. + +"I will play it to you when I come back," he said contentedly. + +She stopped short in the path. + +"When you come back!" The subtle eyes were wide. They were not laughing. + +"Ja, I shall----" + +"Where are you going?" + +He rubbed his great nose in the moonlight. + +"Nein, I know not. I know I must go----" + +She stopped him impatiently. + +"You will not go!" she said. He turned his eyes and looked at her. After +a moment her own fell. "Why will you go?" she asked. + +The face with its dumb look was turned toward her. + +"That little song--it calls me," he said softly. "When it is done I will +come back again--to you." + +She smiled under the lids. + +"That little song--is it for me?" she asked sweetly. + +"Ja, for you." He looked pleadingly at the downcast face. "The song--it +is very sweet; it teases me." + +The lids quivered. + +"It comes to me so close, so close!" He was silent, a rapt look of +listening in his face. It broke with a swift sigh. "Ach! it is gone!" + +She glanced at him swiftly. + +"I thought the songs came quickly." + +He shook his head. + +"The others, yes; but not this one. It is not like the others. It is so +sweet and gentle--far away--and pure like the snow.... It calls me--" +He broke off, gazing earnestly at the beautiful, high-bred face, with +its downcast eyes. + +"Nein! I cannot speak it," he said softly. "But the song it will speak +it for me--when I come." + +She lifted her head, and held out her hand with a gesture half shy and +very sweet. + +The moonlight veiled her. "I shall wait," she said gently--"for the +song." + +He held the slender hand for a moment in his own; then it was laid +lightly against his lips, and turning, he had disappeared among the +shadows. + + + + +V + + +"Hallo, Franz! Hallo--there!" + +Two young men, walking rapidly along the low hedge that shuts in the Zum +Biersack from the highway, lifted heated faces and glanced toward the +enclosure, where a youth seated at one of the tables had half risen from +his place, and was gesticulating with the open book in his hand to +vacant seats beside him. + +"It is Tieze," said Schubert, with a smile. "Come in." + +His companion nodded. The next instant a swift waiter had served them, +and three round, smiling faces surveyed one another above the foaming +mugs. + +"Ach!" said Tieze, looking more critically at the shorter man, "but you +have grown thin, my friend. You are not so great." + +Schubert smiled complacently. He glanced down at his rotund figure. + +"Nein, I am little," he assented affably. + +His companions broke into a roar of laughter. + +"Drink her down, Franz! drink her down!" said Tieze, lifting the heavy +stein. + +Schubert wiped the foam from his lips. + +"Ja, that is good!" He drew a deep sigh. + +He reached out his hand for the open volume that lay by his companion's +hand. It was given over in silence, and he dipped into it as he sipped +the beer, smiling and scowling and humming softly. Now and then he +lifted his head and listened. His eyes looked across the noisy garden +into space. + +His companions ignored him. They laughed and chatted and sang. Other +young men joined the group, and the talk grew loud. It was the Sunday +festival of Warseck. + +Schubert smiled absently across the babel. + +"A pencil--quick!" he said in a low tone to Tieze. His hand holding the +open book trembled, and the big eyes glowed with fire. + +Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook his head. + +Schubert glared at the careless group. + +"A pencil, I tell you!" he said fiercely. + +There was a moment's lull. Nobody laughed. Some one thrust a stub of +pencil across the table. A fat young man sitting at Schubert's side +seized it and, drawing a few music-bars on the back of a programme, +pushed it on to him. + +"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful sigh, "Goot--goot!" In another +moment he was lost. + +The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his +chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown. +Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise +broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the +garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert's big head wagged +absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and +flying pencil. + +Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spectacles flew to his +forehead, and his round face smiled genially at the laughing group. + +"Done?" asked the fat young man with a smile. He reached out his hand +for the scrawled page. + +Schubert drew it jealously back. + +"Nein," he said quickly. + +Tieze, who had come around the table, stood behind them, scanning the +barred lines and the scattered shower of notes. He raised a quick hand +to the group about the table. + +"Gott im Himmel!" he said excitedly. "Listen, you dunderheads!" + +Silence fell on the group. Every glance was turned to him. He hummed +softly a few bars of sweetest melody--under the garden's din.... The +notes stopped in a choking gasp, Schubert's hand on his throat. + +"Stop that!" he said hoarsely. The paper had been thrust loosely into +his coat pocket. His face worked fiercely. + +Tieze drew back, half laughing, half alarmed. + +"Franz! Franz!" he said. + +The other brushed his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath. + +"Ja," he said slowly, "I might have killed you." + +Tieze nodded. A look of curiosity held his face. + +"It is schoen!" he said softly. "Schoen!" + +Schubert turned abruptly. + +"It is not for you.... For years I search that song, over mountains, in +the storm, in the sunshine; but it has never come--till here." His eye +swept the crowded place. "Now I have it"--he patted the rough coat +pocket--"now I have it, I go away." + + + + +VI + + +The girl sitting on a rough bench by the low building stirred slightly. +She glanced behind her. Deep blackness in the wood, shifting moonshine +about her. She breathed a quick sigh. It was like that other night. Ah, +he would not come! + +Her face fell forward into her slender fingers. She sat immovable. The +shadow trembled a little, but the girl by the low house was blind and +deaf. Melodies of the past were about her. The shadow moved, but she had +no eyes to see; slowly it travelled across the short-cropped grass, +mystically green and white in the waning moon. Noiselessly it came; it +sank noiselessly into the shadow of the low house. A sound clicked and +was still. But the girl had not moved--memory music held her. It moved +upon her spirit, low and sweet, and stirred the pulse, and breathed +itself away. + +She stirred a little, and laid her cheek upon her palm. Her opened eyes +rested carelessly on the ground; her look flashed wide and leaped to the +lattice window beside her, and back again to the ground. A block of +light lay there, clear and defined. It was not moonlight or dream-light. +She sprang to her feet and moved a step nearer the window. Then she +stopped, her hand at her side, her breath coming quickly. The high, +sweet notes were calling from the night. Swiftly she moved. The door +gave lightly beneath her touch. She crossed the smooth floor. She was by +his side. The music was around them, above them, shimmering. It held +them close. Slowly he turned his big, homely face and looked at her, but +the music did not cease. It hovered in the air above, high and pure and +sweet. The face of the young countess bent lower; a look of tenderness +waited in her subtle eyes. + +He sprang to his feet, his hands outstretched to ward it off. + +"Nein. It is not I. It is the music. You shall not be bewitched!" His +hands made swift passes, as if he would banish a spell. + +She caught them to her and waited. + +"Am I bewitched--Franz?" she said at last. The voice was very low. The +laughing eyes were looking into his. + +"Ja, you are bewitched," he returned stoutly. + +"And you?" + +"I have only love for you." + +"And I have only love for you," she repeated softly. She hummed a bit of +the melody and stopped, looking at him sweetly. "It is my song," she +questioned--"the song you went to seek for me?" + +He lifted his head proudly. + +"It came for you." + +She nodded with brimming eyes. Her hands stole softly up to the big +face. They framed it in, with its look of pride, and touched it gently. +"Dear face!" she breathed, "dear ugly face--my music face!" + +They moved swiftly apart. The figure of the count was in the open +doorway. + +She moved forward serenely and slipped her hand in his. + +"I am here, Father Johann," she said quietly. + +His fingers closed about the white ones. + +"Go outside, Cara. Wait there till I come." + +Her dark, troubled eyes looked into his. They were not laughing now. + +"Nay, father," she said gently, "it is you who will wait outside--while +we say farewell." + +The count regarded her for a long moment, then he turned toward the +young musician, his face full of compassion and a kind of envy. + +"My friend," he said slowly, "for five minutes I shall leave her with +you. You will go away--forever." + +Schubert bowed proudly. His eyes were on the girl's face. + +As the door closed, she turned to him, holding out her hands. + +He took them in his, and they stood silent, looking into each other's +eyes. + +She drew a long breath. + +"What do people say when they are dying?" she asked. + +"Nein, I know not." His voice trembled. + +"There is so much, and it is nothing," said the girl dreamily. She moved +a step toward the piano, his hands locked fast in hers. "Tell me again +you love me!" she whispered. + +He took off the great spectacles, and laid them beside the scrawled +page. + +"Look in my eyes," he said gently. A kind of grandeur had touched the +homely features. The soul behind them looked out. + +She bent toward him. A little sob broke from her lips. She lifted the +hands and moved them swiftly toward the keys. + +"Tell me!" she said. + +With a smile of sadness, he obeyed the gesture. + +Melody filled the room. It flooded the moonlight. The count, pacing back +and forth, halted, a look of bewilderment in his face. He stepped +swiftly toward the door. + +The lights on the piano flared uncertainly. They fell on the figure at +the piano. It loomed grotesque and grim, and melted away in flickering +shadow. Music played about it. Strains of sadness swept over it in the +gloom and drifted by, and the sweet, high notes rose clear. A little +distance away the figure of the young countess stood in the shifting +light. Her clasped hands hung before her. She swayed and lifted them, +groping, and turned. Her father sprang to her. Side by side they passed +into the night. The music sounded about them far and sweet. + + * * * * * + +Franz Schubert, with his youth and his wreaths of fame, his homely face +and soul of fire, is dead these many years; but the soul of fire is not +dead.... The Countess Esterhazy, framed for love, is dust and ashes in +her marble house. The night music plays over her tomb. + +The night music plays wherever night is. + + + + +FREDERIC CHOPIN--A RECORD + + + PARIS, October 6, 1837. + +It has rained all day. No one has been in. No fantasies have crept to my +soul. Nothing to break the ceaseless, monotonous drip, drip, drip on my +heart. No one but a _garcon_ from the florist's bringing violets--the +great swelling bunch of English violets--Jane Stirling's violets! +Heavens, what a woman! I am like her now, in the little mirror on my +desk. Merely thinking of her has made me so! The great aquiline +nose--the shrewd, canny Scotch look--and the big mouth--alas, that +mouth! When it smiles I am enraged. Oh, Jane! Why dost thou haunt me, +night and day, with thy devotion and thy violets--and thy nose! Let +women be gentle, with soft glances that thrill--soft, dark flames. +Constantia's glance? Constantia? Nay, fickle. Fickle moon of yesternight +that drips--drips--drips. Will it never cease! I cannot play the pain +away. It eats into my heart. Yet life was made for joy and +love--love--love--sweet as dream-light--sweet as music--sad and sweet +and gay--love! The weariness rests upon me. The silver clock ticks. It +chimes the pain. One--two--three--nine--ten. The night wears slowly. I +must break the burden. I will look into a woman's face, and rest. + + + PARIS, October 10, 1837. + +It was a thought of inspiration. I threw off the ugly loose coat and my +_ennui_ together. I plunged into the fragrant bath. Little tunes hummed +to me as I rose from it. I put on clean, fresh linen--fine as silk--and +evening dress. My blood coursed freely, and the scent of violets came to +me sweetly. It followed through the wet, dripping streets, and clung to +me as I ascended the softly carpeted stair to the salon of the Countess +Czosnowska. I was merry in my soul. Then a shadow crossed me. It fell +upon my shoulder, and I turned in fear to look. No one--except a naked +Venus on the wall. My good angel drew me on. I have seen her thrice +since then. It seems a day. She came and looked into my eyes, while I +played. It was fairy-music, witching and sweet--a little sad--the +fairies of the Danube. My heart danced with them in the fatherland. Her +eyes looked into mine. Sombre eyes--strange eyes. What did they say? She +leaned forward on the piano, gazing at me passionately. My soul leaped +back and stood at bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was a man's +face--breadth and depth and coarseness--and the strange, sad eyes. I +longed for them and shrank upon myself. She moved away. Later we spoke +together--commonplaces. Liszt brought her to me, where I was sitting +alone. Camellias framed us in. A sweet shadow rested on my heart. She +praised my playing--gently. She understood. But the strong, sad, ugly +face! I have seen her twice since then. In her own _salon_, with the +noblest minds of France about her--and once alone. Beautiful +face--haunting sadness! Aurora--sweetest name! She loves me! +Day-spring--loved-one! The night lags---- + + + PARIS, November 5, 1838. + +We are to go away together--to the South. There is a strange pain at my +chest, a haunting cough. It will not let me go. I shall escape it--in +the South. She cares for me, day and night. Her sweet breath! My +mother's face is sad in my dreams. I shall not dream when the sun shines +warm upon me--in the South---- + + + MAJORCA, November 16, 1838. + +We are alone--two souls--in this island of the sea. The surf beats at +night. I lie and listen. Jane Stirling came to see us off. She brought +violets--great, swelling English violets. I smell them in the mouldy +cloister cells, night and day. This monks' home is cold and bleak. The +wind rattles through it, and at night it moans. A chill is on me. When I +cough it echoes through my heart. I love the light. Sweet music waits +the light. I will not die. The shadow haunts. But life is strong. +Jane's violets on my grave! I will not die. + + + PARIS, March 14, 1839. + +Paris--gay, live Paris! The cabs rattle sweetly on the stones. I can +breathe now. The funeral dirge will wait. In Marseilles we came upon +Nourrit--dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into +eternity! I knew it all. The solemn mass ascended for his soul--and high +above it all, I spoke in swelling chords--mystery--pain--justice--the +fatherland. A requiem for his soul--for Chopin's soul? And Heine smiles. +Brave Heine! With death upon his heart--inch by inch he fights it--with +laughs. I saw him yestermorn. His great eyes winked. They made a bet at +me. He will outlast us yet, he swore, ten years. Brave fight! Shall I +live to see it stop--gasp--the last quip fail on sunny lips? I peer +into the years between. They hang among the mists. Aurora comes. It is a +week. Sweet day-spring! + + + NOHANT, October 11, 1839. + +They tell me I am well. The cough has ceased and the pain. But deep +below, it beats. Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only when I play will they +glow. They fill the world with light. I sit and play softly--her pen +moves fast. She can write with music--music--over her--around--Chopin's +music, whispered low--but clear as love. They said once George Sand was +clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes her great. It eats the soul. For +thee, Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I would not mind. I give +thee all. I ask a glance--a touch--a smile when thou art weary--leave to +love thee and to make sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel, +love--with thy veiled eyes? + + + NOHANT, May 3, 1847. + +I must have money. I am a burden--sick--a cough that racks the soul. +Aurora comes but seldom. The cough hurts her. She is busy. I do not look +into her eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It stretches from my +window--sunny, French field! Miles away, beneath a Polish sky, I see my +mother's eyes. Unshed tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she calls +to me, "thou wilt be a great musician. Poland will be proud of thee!" +Poland--dear land--proud of Frederic Chopin! My heart is empty. It +aches. + + + NOHANT, June 1, 1847. + +It is over. Life has stopped. A few years more or less, perhaps. But +never life again. I do not write the words. They hammer at my brain. +She spoke so sharply--and my soul was sick. I did not think she could. +If she had waited--I would not have tarried long, not too long, Aurora. +Hadst thou waited--weary of the burden, the sick burden of my complaint! +Money--I shall work--Waltzes that the public loves--and pays for. +Mazurkas from a torn heart! I shall work--a little while--20,000 francs +to set me free! I will die free! + + + PARIS, June 10, 1847. + +Strange fortune that besets a man! The 20,000 franc paper is in my hand. +I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling and her goodness haunt my gloom. +She only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, Scotch lady! With thy heart of +gold, thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead! Thy francs lie heavy in +my hand. "Master," she writes my name. She only asks to give. But women +should be gentle, with soft, dark eyes that thrill. The day has closed. +I shall die free! + + + STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, June 16, 1848. + +I am lying in a great chamber of the castle. The house is still. The +guests have creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse voice is hushed. +When I played for them below, my fingers twitched and my heart ached +with the numbness. I could have cried with weariness and pain. The +faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. He has undressed me and laid me +here among the swelling pillows. The light burns fitfully. It dances +among the shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist draws near. It peers +into my window. It is Jane's soul--soft and floating wool--and clammy. +My heart is ice--ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me all the day. We +talk of music! Strange, disjointed talk--with gaps of common +sense--hero-worship--and always the flame that burns for me--slow and +still. She has one thought, one wish--to guard my days with sweet +content. And in my soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its way to +the last citadel. I have not long to wait. I shall not cry out with the +pain. Its touch is sweet--like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine +writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes +keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my +_salon_--shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's +wash-basin--going!--for ten sous--going!" My pictures, caskets, +tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano +with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady! +Cruel one--my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever--false dawn that +could not stand the sun's deep kiss--Aurora. Unrest--unrest--will it +never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The +silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it +with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from +thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast--upon +this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and +burns--it shall be severed, chord by chord--it shall return to the land +that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists--with my mother's +brow and mouth and chin. Poland that sings and weeps--sad land. My +heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it +shall rest--at last--rest! + + + + +THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE + + + + +I + + +"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!" + +The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the +foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The +moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in +the dark front. + +The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call +again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and +occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, +handsome youth as they drifted past. + +The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He +carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the +cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it +with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant +seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat. + +Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor +Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small +instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her +words. + +"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" +He bowed to the man opposite him. + +"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big +and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men +joined in. + +The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant +craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous +strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face +of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face +of many pictures; while the big man opposite--her husband--the famous +Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to +attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group +that drew the eyes and held them to-night. + +He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome--known in Venice years +ago, it was whispered--a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the +beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her +red-gold locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, +dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. +He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves +dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from +the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his +companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite--and +filled with gentle, wondering light. + +Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look +of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak--but +Giorgione stayed him with a gesture. + +"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! +Halt for the Fondaco!" + +The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose +white and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly +along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, +Titian, on the big facade to the south, and Zarato and I--" He laid his +hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and +I on the inner court." + +The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, +with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece +of work," he said. + +Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With +three Venetians at the frescos--we shall see, ah--we shall see!" He +laughed again good-humoredly. + +The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear +moonlight. + +"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin." + +"To-morrow Zarato comes to me--for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, +almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face. + +The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat +staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark +eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly. + +Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me." + +Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't +spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must +wait." + +"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can +wait then--a year, six months--I care not." + +Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, +Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes--paint +gold. But never paint an artist--an artist and a gentleman!" + +They laughed merrily and the boat glided on--out into the lagoon and the +broad, flooding moonlight. + +"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, +breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the +opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying +the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear. + +The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath +its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift +breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh. + +Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he +murmured softly. + +She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help +it," she said; "it is the music." + +"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry--half cynical. + +Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her. + +Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden +water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not +reveal it. + +Violante glanced at him timidly. + +"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the +tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. +Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. + +"_Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit_," rang out the voice. + +"_Qua boir soit--qua boir soit_," repeated Violante softly. + +The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. +Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water. + +The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once +more!--Bella!" He clapped his hands. + +Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met--a long, slow +look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened. + +Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back +against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over +the voluptuous figure at his side--the snowy tunic and the ruby-red +bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and +wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them--something tender, +almost sweet. + +He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said +under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture." + +She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling. + +Giorgione leaned forward, smiling. + +"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face +and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?" + +"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He +had not removed his eyes from her face. + +Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" +he murmured tragically. "But _you_ will help, Zarato. You will not go +paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half +querulous. + +The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew +his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" +His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you--if--I can." + + + + +II + + +"A little more to the right, please." + +Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice +murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the +sitter to his canvas. + +"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that--ten +minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift +strokes. + +The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face +lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the +tone laughed gently. + +Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too +much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us." + +"I am indebted to you!" said the young man politely. He lifted his hand +with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily +to the console beside him. + +With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with +satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!--Good!" he murmured +under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He +hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall +figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift +decision. + +The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the +Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells. + +The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the +studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant +words--to the sound of a voice. + +"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for +to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically. + +The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and +lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You +paint like no other," he said quietly. + +Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. +"They will not call it like Palma, this time--nor like Giorgione, nor +Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled +over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls. + +The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have +outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward +a canvas across the room. + +"But this--" he laid his hand lightly on the frame--"this was after +Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry. + +Titian nodded curtly. + +"It was the model--partly," he said half grudgingly. + +"I know--Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. +"Would she pose for any one--for me, do you think?" + +Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy--Better not! When she gets +into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato--bewitched forever! Look +there--and there--and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases. + +The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad," +he said gravely. + +Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've +no idea how I had to fight to keep her out--And, oh, that hair!" He +groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases--"Palma's worse!" he +chuckled. + +The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And +Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly. + +Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her." + +The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and +mechanically turned the leaves. + +The older man eyed him keenly. + +"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young +man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her--except +that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly. + +The young man's eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out, +pointing to a name scrawled on the margin. + +Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that +the light fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" he said +enthusiastically. + +The young man nodded. "An Aldine--I saw that. What does the marking +mean?" He asked the question almost rudely. + +His companion turned the leaves. "It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he +said slowly.... "I've been looking up Violante's pose.--Here it is." He +read the lines in a musical voice. + +A heavy frown had come between the handsome eyes watching him. "You'll +not paint her like that?" + +"I rather think I shall," responded Titian slowly. "She has promised." + +"And Giorgione?" + +"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. He trusts her--as I do." He laid +his hand again on the shoulder near him. "I tell you, man, you're wrong. +Believe in her and--leave her," he said significantly. + +The shoulder shrugged itself slightly away. The young man picked up his +hat from the table near by. He raised it courteously before he dropped +it with a little laugh on the dark curls. + +"I go to an appointment," he said. + + + + +III + + +A face looked over the balcony railing as the gondola halted at the foot +of the steps. It smiled with a look of satisfaction, and the owner, +reaching for a rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick touch over the +balcony edge. + +It fell at the feet of the young man stepping from the gondola, and +caused him to bend with a deep flush. It touched his lips lightly as he +raised himself and lifted his velvet cap to the face above. + +She smiled mockingly. "You are late," she said--"two minutes late!" + +"I come!" he replied, springing up the steps. In another minute he was +beside her, smiling and flushed, looking down at her with deep, intent +gaze. + +She made a place for him on the divan. "Sit down," she said. + +He seated himself humbly, his eyes studying hers. + +She smiled lazily and unfurled her fan, covering her face except the +eyes. They regarded him over the fringe of feathers. + +"Where have you been?" she demanded. + +"With Titian." + +"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold so--!" She laughed musically. + +Zarato nodded. "I go to him to-morrow." + +"Has Titian finished?" + +"For the present--He will lay it away." + +"I know," she laughed, "--to mellow!... How did you like it?" + +He hesitated a second. "It was a little rough," he confessed. + +"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly. "Like a log of wood--or a heap of +stones--or a large loaf of bread." + +He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to him often?" he asked. + +Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his face. "Not now," she replied. + +He returned the look searchingly. "You are going to?" + +"Yes," she assented. + +He still held her eyes. "I don't like it," he said slowly. + +The ghost of a smile came into her face. Her eyes danced in the shadow +of it. "No?" she said quietly. + +"No!" + +She waited, looking down and plucking at the silken fringe of her +bodice. "Why?" she asked after a time. + +He made no reply. + +She glanced up at him. He was looking away from her, across the gay +canal. His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, and his lip trembled. + +Her glance fell. "Why not?" she repeated softly. + +He looked down at her and his face flushed. "I don't know," he said. He +bent toward her and took the fan from her fingers. + +She yielded it with half reluctance, her eyes mocking him and her lips +alluring. + +He smiled back at her, shaking his head slightly and unfurling the fan. +He had regained his self-possession. He moved the fan gently, stirring +the red-gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe on her bodice. It +rose and fell swiftly, moved in the soft current of air. His eyes +studied her face. "Will you sit for me some day?" he said. + +She nodded without speaking. The breath came swiftly between the red +lips and the eyes were turned away. They rested on the facade of a tall +building opposite, where a flock of doves, billing and cooing in the +warm air, strutted and preened themselves. Their plump and iridescent +breasts shone in the sun. + +Her hand reached for the cithara at her side. "Shall I sing you their +song?" she said, "The Birds of Venus." + +He smiled indulgently. Her voice crooned the words. + +"Sing!" she said imperiously. He joined in, following her mood with +ready ease. + +There was silence between them when the song was done. She sat with her +eyes half closed, looking down at the white hands in her lap. + +He lifted one of them gently, his eyes on her face. She did not stir or +look up. He raised it slowly to his lips. + +The warm breath stirred a smile on her face. She glanced at him from +under falling lids. + +He dropped the hand and stood up with a half cry. + +"I must go--Violante--I must--go!" He groped to where the doorway +opened, cool and dark, behind them, "I must go," he repeated vaguely. + +She rose and came to him slowly. "You must go," she said softly. + +They passed into the dark, open doorway. + +Below, in the hot sun, the gondola rocked at the foot of the stairs. + + + + +IV + + +The noon-bell in the southern turret of the Fondaco chimed softly. A +painter at work on the facade near by looked up inquiringly at the sun. +He smiled absently to himself and, dropping his brushes, descended +lightly from the scaffolding to the ground. He walked away a few +steps--as far as the ground permitted--and turned to look at the work +above. + +"Not so bad," he murmured softly, "--not so bad ... and better from the +water." He glanced at the canal below. A white hand from a passing +gondola waved to him and motioned approvingly toward the colors of the +great wall. + +"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one from another craft. The canal took up +the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo,--Tiziano!" + +Titian raised his painter's cap and returned the salute. He stood with +one foot on the parapet, looking down and smiling with easy grace, at +the pleasure-loving crowd below. A man came in sight around the corner +of the Fondaco, walking slowly and looking up at the picture as he came. + +"Well?" Titian glanced at him keenly. + +"Great!" responded Giorgione heartily. "The Judith bears the light well, +and when the scaffolding is down it will be better yet.... Venice will +be proud!" He laid his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder and +motioned toward the throng of boats that had halted below, gazing at the +glowing wall. + +"To-day Titian--to-morrow another!" said Titian a little bitterly. + +"Why care?" responded Giorgione. "Some one to-day told me that my +Judith, on the south wall here, surpasses all my other work together." +He laughed cordially. + +Titian looked at him keenly. His face had flushed a little under the +compliment. "It is like you not to care," he said affectionately. + +"Care! Why should I care--so that the work is done?" His eyes rested +lovingly on the facade. "It is marvellous--that trick of light," he said +wonderingly.... "You must teach it to me." + +Titian laughed under his breath. "I learned it from you." + +Giorgione shook his head. "Not from me...." he replied doubtingly. "If +you learned it from me, others would learn from me." He stood, looking +up, lost in thought. + +"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian abruptly. + +Giorgione started vaguely. A flush came into his face. "He stopped +work--an hour ago," he said. + +Titian's eyes were on his face. + +The open friendliness had vanished. It was turned to him with a look of +trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli--" His speech hesitated and broke +off. He was looking down at the dark water. + +Titian answered the unspoken question. "Yes, I had thought," he said. +His voice was very quiet. + +His companion looked up quickly. "He is with her now, it may be.... I +told them that I should not go home at the noon-bell." He looked about +him slowly--at the clear sky and at the moving throng of boats below-- + +"I am going home." He spoke the words with dull emphasis. + +Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!" + +Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and +clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if--if Zarato was not my +friend," he said as he turned away. + +"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who +distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly. + +"Remind him that he is to sit for me this afternoon," he called more +lightly, as the other moved away. + +"I will remember," said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had +disappeared in the maze of buildings. + +Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered +up some tools from a bench near by.... The look in his friend's eyes +haunted him. + + + + +V + + +It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for +the appointed sitting with Zarato. + +He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood +back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, +gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, +gleaming eyes formed themselves--Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at +him, pathetic and fierce. + +With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about +him for his cap, and found it at last--on the back of his head. He +settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I +shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was gone from +the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio. + +As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together +against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on +the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent +shoulder. + +The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's +eyes--a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him +stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, +gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and +looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated. + +Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said +frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show. + +"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a +child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat. + +For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, +and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the +studio as if seeking something--and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he +whispered. + +Titian started. "No!" + +Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that +was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze +fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his +face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, +and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness. + +Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and +touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his +friend's shoulder till the servant returned. + +"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, +slender glass to his lips. + +The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" +he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on +his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and +looked at his friend with searching eyes. + +"Where have they gone?" he demanded. + +Titian shook his head. "How should I know?" + +"He said he was going to you." + +"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!" + +Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it +exultantly. + +"What do you mean!" + +"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again. + +"You did not----?" + +Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and +his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips. + +"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A +piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and +charred. He took it up fondly. + +"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end. + +Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said. + +Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have +seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely. + +"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to +take effect. + +Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio. + +"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. +"Home! Row for life!" + +A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy +might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called +to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning. + +With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On +the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms +hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, +scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the +closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the +mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent +closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor +was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on +the firm flesh. + +With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the +hand. + +It rested limply in his grasp. + +Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread +the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell +you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." +He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I +must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet. + +"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?" + +He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly. + +"You don't know! She has left home----" + +"But not with me." + +The two men stood staring at each other. + +There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a +group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. +The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room +and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened +his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining +floor. + +"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet +figure. "He said so." + +"Who said it?" said Titian harshly. + +"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let +us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her +here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick +up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room. + +Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless +figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that +shone in the wet folds. + +"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and +fell forward. + +The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the +ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from +the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight. + + + + +VI + + +"You must go!" said Titian sternly. + +The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his +head. "I have work to do." + +Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it--I tell +you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to +keep them--this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds +them." + +The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death--I +crave it!" His arms fell at his sides. + +His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked +shortly. + +"Giorgione--" The voice was tense. "He shall pay--to the uttermost!" + +"For that?" Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand. + +The young man raised it with a scornful gesture. + +"For that"--he spoke sternly--"I would not touch the dog. It is for +her!" His voice dropped. + +Titian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice. + +The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer--as she suffered," he +added with slow significance. + +"Would that content you? Would you go away--and not return?" + +"I would go--yes." + +Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at +last, "the Lord has avenged her." + +The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you +mean?" + +"That she is avenged," said Titian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the +year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace." + +"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly. + +Titian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!" + +The young man smiled. + +Titian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he +said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the +door."--He waited a breath. "The man is mad!" + +The young man started sharply. + +"Mad!" repeated Titian. + +Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated +softly. The gloved hand trembled. + +A look of relief stole into Titian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he +asked quietly. "Will you go?" + +"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!" +he whispered softly. + +"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight--you would +be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row +you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you." + +The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he +said humbly. + +"For you and Giorgione and for--her." + +They sat silent. + +"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with +the thought. + +Titian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly. + +The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he +said, "a dozen and more." + +"Yes." + +"Who will finish them?" + +"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded. + +"Shall you?" + +Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he +said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him--I +harbor you." + +The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," he said humbly. He shivered a +little. + +"And not return till I send for you." + +"I will not return--till you send for me!" + + + + +VII + + +Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there +on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm +air. + +A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the +moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among +the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful +eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, +smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none +remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge +or to remember a man--when the waters close over him.... Slowly the boat +drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change +of color.... "Bride of the Sea," he murmured as the boat swept on. +"Bride of the Sea--There is none like thee in beauty or power!" His +eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to +them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and +supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, +incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man's +eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene. + +With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of +stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and +ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he +disappeared within. + +Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He +sprang forward, holding out his hands. + +The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," +he said slowly. + +"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the +glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance. + +"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I +have not done a stroke since that last night--the night I rowed you out +to the lagoon." + +"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below. + +Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first--too strained and +weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them +ruefully. "And then--" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to +finish his pictures.... There has been no time." + +"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice. + +Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know--He would not +see me--to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for +me. I did the work and asked no questions--for friendship's sake." He +sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below. + +"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of +Giorgione--They will name you--Titian!" He laughed bitterly. + +The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." +He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?" + +The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"--with a swift look. "I am +hunted! I cannot wipe away your face--as it looked that night. I paint +nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He +laughed shortly and rose to his feet. + +The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I +am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always." + +Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He +turned away to an easel. + +"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had +not moved from his place. + +Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes." + +"Why not finish that?" + +The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled +among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, +looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand +reached out for a brush. + +The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence. + +"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best +finish it as it stands--I am ready." He moved to his place by the +console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease. + +Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps +the pose," he said thoughtfully. + +"Why?" The question came sharply. + +The painter colored under it. "I had planned--to make much of +the--hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be +simple," he added hastily. + +"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence +behind the words. + +Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him +with quick, gleaming lights. + +The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my +feelings are hurt I will tell you." + +The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and +brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed +on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the +picture crept a glow of living color and of light. + +At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more--to-day," he said slowly. +His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly. + +The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing +canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile. + +"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself +slightly. "I would not part with it--not for all the gold of Venice!" + +The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he +stammered. + +"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is +our secret--hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand." + +Titian's eyes stared at him. + +"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did +it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her--and guided +it...." His voice ceased with a catch. + +Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor +child!" + +The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever--forever." He +repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from +its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he +moved. A hand stayed it--the gloved hand. + +There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, +laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in. + +Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of +a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm +beside him. + +The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his +arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the +open secret that remains unguessed." + + + + +THE LOST MONOGRAM + + + + +I + + +The woman seated in the light of the low, arched window was absorbed in +the piece of linen stretched on a frame before her. As her fingers +hovered over the brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with a look of +satisfaction and lighted the face, making it almost handsome. It was a +round, smooth face, untouched by wrinkles, with light-blue eyes--very +near the surface--and thin, curved lips. + +She leaned back in her chair to survey her work, and her lips took on a +deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. Her face, with a look of +listening, turned toward the door. + +The young man who entered nodded carelessly as he threw back the +blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the +room. + +She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She +spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?" + +"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from +him. "I met Pirkheimer--we got to talking." + +The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment. + +The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by +the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered +in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look. + +The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift +touch. + +As the man rose to his feet her eyes flashed a look at the canvas in +his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him. + +He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips +whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed +one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness +filled his absorbed face. + +She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click. +"Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and +even, and held no trace of resentment. + +He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze +returned to the easel. + +The thin lips drew to a line. They did not speak. She took off her +thimble and laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered up the scattered +skeins of linen and silk, straightening each with a little pull, and +laid them in the case. She stabbed a needle into the tiny cushion and +dropped the scissors into their pocket. Then she rose deliberately, her +chair scraping the polished boards as she pushed it back from the frame. + +He looked up, a half frown between the unseeing eyes. + +She lifted the embroidery-frame from its rest and turned toward the +door. "I have other work to do if I am not to pose for you," she said +quietly. + +He made no reply. + +Half-way to the door she paused, looking back. "Herr Muendler was here +while you were out. We owe him twenty-five guldens. It was due the +fifth." She spoke the words crisply. Her face gave no sign of emotion. + +He nodded indifferently. "I know. I shall see him." The soft whistle +was resumed. + +"There is a note from the Rath, refusing you the pension again." She +drew a paper from the work-box in her hand and held it toward him. + +He turned half about in his chair. "Don't worry, Agnes," he said. The +tone was pleading. He did not look at the paper or offer to take it. His +eyes returned to the easel. A gentle light filled them. + +She dropped the paper into the box, a smile on her lips, and moved +toward the easel. She stood for a moment, looking from the pictured face +of the Christ to the glowing face above it. Then she turned again to the +door. "It's very convenient to be your own model," she said with a +laugh. The door clicked behind her. + +He sat motionless, the grave, earnest eyes looking into the eyes of the +picture. Now and then he stirred vaguely. But he did not lift his hand +or touch the brushes beside it. Gazing at each other, in the fading +light of the low window, the two faces were curiously alike. There was +the same delicate modelling of lines, the same breadth between the eyes, +the long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive lips, and in the eyes the +same look of deep melancholy--touched with a subtle, changing, human +smile that drew the beholder. It disarmed criticism and provoked it. +Except for the halo of mocking and piercing thorns, the living face +might have been the pictured one below it. The look of suffering in one +was shadowed in the other. + +There was a light tap at the door and it flew open. + +The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a +sunny smile. "Pirkheimer!" He sprang to his feet. "What now?" + +The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He +nodded toward it approvingly. + +"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes studied the picture. "I got to +thinking it over after you left me--I was afraid you might touch it up +and spoil it--I want it just as it is." His eyes sought his companion's +face. + +The painter shook his head. "I don't know--not yet--you must leave it +with me. It's yours. You shall have it--when it's done." + +"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here--sign." He picked up a +brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to +the painter. + +He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly +his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing +locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs +of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny +figures, a date--1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he +stepped back with a little sigh. + +His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll +take it." + +The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said. + +"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it." + +"Yes, I said it--not yet." + +The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse +hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me." + +The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it--not even to you," he +said. His eyes were on the canvas. + +"But it's mine!" + +"It's yours--for friendship's sake." + +The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. +"You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly. + +"Ay, I'll tell Agnes--that it's yours. But not what you paid for it," +added the painter thoughtfully. + +"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was +half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing +from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living +shame!" he muttered under his breath. + +The artist looked up quickly. "What?" + +"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God, +Duerer, you had a free hand!" he broke out. + +The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple +fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded, +smiling. + +The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of +dissent. "Marriage--for a man like you! Two hundred florins--for dowry!" +He laughed scornfully. + +His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes. + +The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said. +"Don't be angry." + +The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as +if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought. + +"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly. + +"I shall finish it," replied Duerer, without looking up. + +The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Duerer." +He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand. + +The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, +my friend." He held out his hand frankly. + +Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said. + +"Always." + +"And you will never want--if I can help you." + +"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud. + +Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to +it," he said. "It is a promise." + +"I shall hold you to it," laughed Duerer. + +When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved +once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, +looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the +basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed +a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the +mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large +brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track +behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture +mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the +artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush +moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened. +Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It +moved swiftly across the monogram--and paused. The artist peered forward +uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another +stroke of the brush--and another--they were gone forever. + +The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor +humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered +in it--hauntingly. + +He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the +picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to +the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Duerer--his work," he said +under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for +him forever." + + + + +II + + +For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on +the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his +treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the +picture had remained unmoved against the wall. + +Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's +velvet purse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without +number had been executed for him--rings and stones and tapestries, +carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet--till the +Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate +workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Duerer's brush adorned +its walls--grotesque monks and gentle Virgins. But the Face bided its +time against the wall. + +To-day--for the first time in twenty-five years--the Face of the Christ +was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not +the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white, +lay upon a quiet breast--outside the city wall. + +The funeral cortege had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Duerer had come +directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of +her possessions. It was all hers--the money the artist had toiled to +leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish +guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and +copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had +loved--they were all hers, except, perhaps, the copperplates for +Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas +against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often +begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good +price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed +the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly. +The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well +the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A +sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush +on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's +work--his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate, +strong face--the Christ face--Albrecht's face--at thirty-three.... Had +he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She moved away, looking +about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel. +She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath +the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with +curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my +dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it +to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this +day, June 8, 1503, in my home in Nuernberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht +Duerer." + +She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The +discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes, +waited. "His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady." + +For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of +paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it +with her thin smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I +shall receive him here," she said. + +He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He +laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her. + +She returned the look coldly. + +"It is mine!" he said. + +She inclined her head, with a stately gesture, to the open paper on the +table beside her. + +He seized it in trembling fingers. He shook it toward her. "It is mine. +You see--it is mine!" + +"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She spoke with level coolness. "I had +read the paper." + +With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned again to the canvas. A smothered +oath broke from his lips. He leaned forward, incredulous. His round +eyes, bulging and blue, searched every corner. They fell on the wet +brush and bit of color. He turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel!" he hissed, +"you have painted it out. I saw him sign it--years ago--twenty-five +years!" + +She smiled serenely. "It may have been some other one," she said +sweetly. Her glance took in the scattered canvases. + +He shook his head savagely. "I will have no other," he shouted; "I +should know it in a thousand!" + +"Very well." Her voice was as tranquil as her face. "Shall I have it +sent to the house of the honored Herr Pirkheimer?" + +He glared at her. "I take it with me," he said. "I do not trust it out +of sight." + +She bowed in acquiescence. Standing in her widow's garments, with +downcast eyes and gentle resignation, she waited his withdrawal. + +He eyed her curiously. The years had touched her lightly. There were the +same plump features, the same surface eyes, and light, abundant bands of +hair. He heaved a round sigh. He thought of the worn face outside the +city wall. He gathered the canvas under his arm, glaring about the low +room. "There was a pair of antlers," he muttered. "They might go in my +collection. You will want to sell them." + +The downcast eyes did not leave the floor. "They are sold," she said, +"to Herr Umstaetter." A little smile played about the thin lips. + +"Sold! Already!" The round eyes bulged at her. "My God!" he shouted +fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if he had left it where you +could!" + +She raised the blue eyes and regarded him calmly. "The estate is without +condition," she said. + +He groaned as he backed toward the door. The canvas was hugged under his +arm. At the door he paused, looking back over the room. His small eyes +winked fast, and the loose mouth trembled. + +"He was a great man, Agnes," he said gently. "We must keep it clean--the +name of Duerer." + +She looked up with a little gesture of dismissal. "It is I who bear the +name," she said coldly. + +When he was gone she glanced about the room. She went over to a pile of +canvases and turned them rapidly to the light. Each one that bore the +significant monogram she set aside with a look of possession. She came +at last to the one she was searching. It was a small canvas--a Sodom and +Gomorrah. She studied the details slowly. It was not signed. She gave a +little breath of satisfaction, and took up the brush from the bench. She +remembered well the day Albrecht brought it home, and his childish +delight in it. It was one of Joachim Patenir's. Albrecht had given a +Christ head of his own in exchange for it. The brush in her fingers +trembled a little. It inserted the wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying +legs, and overtraced it with a delicate D. She paused a moment in +thought. Then she raised her head and painted in, with swift, decisive +strokes, high up in one corner of the picture, a date. It was a safe +date--1511--the year he painted his Holy Trinity. There would be no one +to question it. + +She sat back, looking her satisfaction. + +Seventy-five guldens to account. It atoned a little for the loss of the +Christ. + + + + +III + + +The large drawing-room was vacant. The blinds had been drawn to shut out +the glare, and a soft coolness filled the room. In the dim light of +half-opened shutters the massive furniture loomed large and dark, and +from the wall huge paintings looked down mistily. Gilt frames gleamed +vaguely in the cool gloom. Above the fireplace hung a large canvas, and +out of its depths sombre, waiting eyes looked down upon the vacant room. + +The door opened. An old woman had entered. She held in her hand a stout +cane. She walked stiffly across to the window and threw back a shutter. +The window opened into the soft greenness of a Munich garden. She stood +for a minute looking into it. Then she came over to the fireplace and +looked up to the pictured face. Her head nodded slowly. + +"It must be," she muttered, "it must be. No one else could have done it. +But four hundred years!"--she sighed softly. "Who can tell?" + +Her glance wandered with a dissatisfied air to the other canvases. "I +would give them all--all of them--twice over--to know--" She spoke under +her breath as she hobbled stiffly to a huge chair. + +The door swung softly back and forth behind a young girl who had +entered. She came in lightly, looking down at a packet of papers in her +hand. + +The old woman started forward. + +"What have ye found?" she demanded. She was leaning on the stout cane. +She peered out of her cavernous eyes. + +The girl crossed to the window and seated herself in the green light. +Shadows of a climbing vine fell on her hair and shoulders as she bent +over the papers in her hand. She opened one of them and ran her eye over +it before she spoke. + +"They were in the north room," she said slowly. "In the big +_escritoire_--that big, clumsy one--I've looked there before, but I +never found them. I've been trying all day to make them out." + +"What are they?" demanded the old woman. + +"Papers, grandmamma," returned the girl absently; "letters and a sort of +journal." Her eyes were on the closely written page. + +"Read it," said the old woman sharply. + +"I can't read it, grandmamma." She shook back the soft curls with a +little sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny--some of the words. And the +writing is blurred and yellow. Look." She held up the open sheet. + +The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work on it," she said brusquely. + +"I have, grandmamma." + +"Well--what did ye find?" + +"It's a man--Will--Willi"--she turned to the bottom of the last +page--"Willibald! That's it." She laughed softly. "Willibald Pirkheimer. +Who was he?" she asked. + +"One of your ancestors." The old mouth waited grimly. + +"One of mamma's?" + +"Your father's." + +"He must have been a nice man," said the girl slowly. "But some of it is +rather--queer." + +The old woman leaned forward with a quick gesture. She straightened +herself. "Nonsense!" she muttered. "Read it," she said aloud. + +"This is written to Albrecht Duerer," said the girl, studying it, "in +Italy." + +The old woman reached out a knotted hand. "Give it to me," she said. + +The girl came across and laid it in her hand. The knotted fingers +smoothed it. The old eyes were on the picture above the mantel. "Will it +tell?" she muttered. + +"There are others, grandmamma." The girl held up the packet in her hand. + +"What have ye made out?" The old hand closed upon them. + +"He was Duerer's friend," said the girl. "There are letters to him--five +or six. And he tells about a picture--in the journal--a picture Albrecht +Duerer gave to him." She glanced down at the wrinkled, working face. "It +was unsigned, grandmamma--and it was the head of the Saviour." + +The old woman's throat moved loosely. Her hands grasped the stout cane. + +With a half sigh, she rose to her feet and tottered across the room. +"Fool--fool--" she muttered, looking up to the mystical, waiting face. +"To leave no mark--no sign--but that!" She shook the yellow papers in +her hand. + +A question shot into the old eyes. She held out the papers. + +"What was it dated, Marie?--that place in the journal--look and see." + +The girl took the papers and moved again to the window. She opened one +and smoothed it thoughtfully, running her eye along the page. She shook +her head slowly. "There is no date, grandmamma," she said. "But it must +be after Duerer's death. He speaks of Frau Duerer"--a smile shaded her +lips--"he doesn't like her very well, I think. When did Duerer die, +grandmamma?" She looked up from the paper. + +"April 6, 1528," said the old woman promptly. + +The girl's eyes grew round and misty. "Four hundred years ago--almost," +she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her +hand. + +"It is very old," she said. + +The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. "Take good +care of them," she croaked; "they may tell it to us yet." + +She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door. + +A wooden butler was bowing himself to the floor. "The Herr Professor +Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer," he announced grandly. + +A dapper young man with trim mustaches and spotless boots advanced into +the room. + +The girl by the window swayed a breath. The clear color had mounted in +her cheek. + +The old woman waited, immovable. Her hands were clasped above the stout +cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed the advancing figure. + +At two yards' distance it paused. The heels came together with a swift +click. He bowed in military salute. + +The old woman achieved a stiff courtesy and waited. The dim eyes peered +at him shrewdly. + +"I have the honor to pay my respects to the Baroness von Herkomer," said +the young man, with deep politeness. + +The baroness assented gruffly. She seated herself on a large divan, +facing the picture, and motioned with her knotted hand to the seat +beside her. + +The young man accepted it deferentially. His eyes were on a bowed head, +framed in shadows and leaves across the room. + +"I trust Fraeulein Marie is well?" he said promptly. + +"Marie----" + +The girl started vaguely. + +"Come and greet the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer." + +She rose lightly from her place and came across the room. A soft curl, +blown by the wind, drifted across her flushes as she came. + +The young man sprang to his feet. His heels clicked again as he bent low +before her. + +She descended in a shy courtesy and glanced inquiringly at her +grandmother. + +The old woman nodded curtly. "Go on with your papers," she said. + +The girl turned again to the green window. Her head bowed itself above +the papers. + +The young man's eyes followed them. He turned to the old woman beside +him. "Is it something about--the picture?" he asked. + +She nodded sharply. "Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said, +"ancestor of the von Herkomers--sixteenth century. He was a friend of +Duerer's." Her lips closed crisply on the words. + +He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will +furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly. + +She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture. + +"You have one Duerer." He motioned toward a small canvas. "Is it not +enough?" + +Her eyes turned to it and flashed in disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!" +She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as a copy!" + +"It is signed." + +She glanced at it again. There was shrewd intolerance in the old eyes. +"Do you think I cannot tell?" she said grimly. "I know the work of +Albrecht Duerer, length and breadth, line for line. You say he painted +that!" She pointed a swift finger at the picture across the room. "Have +ye looked at Lot's legs?" Her laugh cackled softly. + +The young man smiled under his mustaches. + +The baroness had turned again to the picture over the fireplace. "But +_that_--" she murmured softly. "It is signed in every line--in the eyes, +in the painting of the hair, in the sweep from brow to chin. It will yet +be found," she said under her breath. "It shall be found." + +He looked at her, smiling. Then he raised his eyes politely to the +picture. A slow look formed behind the smile. He half started, gazing +intently at the deep, painted canvas. His glance strayed for a second to +the green window, and back again to the picture. + +The old baroness roused herself with a sigh. She turned toward him. +"Your dissertation has brought you honor, they tell me," she said, +looking at him critically. + +He acknowledged the remark with a bow. "It is nothing," he replied +indifferently. "Only a step toward molecules and atoms." + +The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't understand chemical jargon." Her +tone was dry. "I understand you are going to be famous." + +The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture +above the fireplace. "What would you give to know"--he nodded toward +it--"that it is a genuine Duerer?" + +The shrewd eyes darted at him. + +The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless. + +"Give! I would give"--her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of +canvas and gilt and tapestry--"I would give all, everything in the +room"--she raised a knotted hand toward the picture--"to know that +Albrecht Duerer's monogram belongs there." The pointing finger trembled a +little. + +He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great +room. "Everything in this room," he said slowly. "That means--" He +paused, glancing toward the window. + +The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor. +She was leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and +nodded, out of reach. + +He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her +chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek. + +The eyes watching her glowed softly. "Everything in this room--" He +spoke very low. "The one with the rose?" + +The old face turned to him with a look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot +to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. The jaws came together with a +snap. She nodded to him shrewdly. + +The young man rose to his feet. The cynical smile had left his face. It +was intent and earnest. He looked up for a moment to the picture, and +then down at the wrinkled, eager face. + +"To-morrow, at this time, you shall know," he said gravely. + +The old eyes followed him, half in doubt, half in hope. They pierced the +heavy door as it swung shut behind him. + +The stiff, dapper figure had crossed the hall. The outer door clanged. + +Against the green window, within, the soft curls and gentle, questioning +eyes of the Fraeulein Marie waited. As the door clanged, a rose was laid +lightly to her lips and dropped softly into the greenness below. + + + + +IV + + +At a quarter to ten the next morning a closed carriage drew up before +the heavy gate. A dapper figure pushed open the door and leaped out. It +entered the big gateway, crossed a green garden and was ushered into the +presence of the Baroness von Herkomer. + +She stood beneath the picture, her eyebrows bent, her lips drawn, and +her hands resting on the stout cane. + +"Will you come with me?" he asked deferentially. + +"Where to?" + +He hesitated. "You will see. I cannot tell you--now. But I need +you--with the picture." He motioned toward it. + +She eyed him grimly for a second. Then she touched a bell. + +The wooden butler appeared. "Send Wilhelm," she commanded. + +Half an hour later the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled +figure into the closed carriage that stood before the gate. A huge, +oblong package rested against a lamp-post beside him, and near it stood +the Fraeulein Marie, rosy and shy. The young man turned to her with a +swift gesture. + +"Come," he said. + +He placed her beside her grandmother, and watched carefully while the +heavy parcel was lifted to the top of the carriage. With an injunction +to the driver for its safety, he turned to spring into the carriage. + +The voice of the baroness, from muffled folds, arrested him. + +"You will ride outside with the picture," it said. "I do not trust it to +a driver." + +With a bow he slammed the carriage door and mounted the box. In another +minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly +through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy +parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders. + +From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the +flying streets--a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless +smile. + +"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old woman. "Does he think any one at the +Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Duerer than Henriette von Herkomer?" +She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her. + +Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the flying carriage--on past the New +Pinakothek. An old face peered out upon the marble walls, wistful and +suspicious. A mass of buildings loomed in view. + +"The university," she muttered under her breath. "Some upstart Herr +Professor--to tell _me_ of Albrecht Duerer! Fool--fool!" She croaked +softly in her throat. + +"The Herr Doctor is a learned man, grandmamma--and a gentleman!" said a +soft voice beside her. + +"A gentleman can be a fool!" returned the old woman tartly. "What +building is this?" + +The carriage had stopped before a low, square doorway. + +"It is the chemistry laboratory, grandmamma," said the girl timidly. + +The old woman leaned forward, gray with rage, pulling at the +closed door. "Chemistry lab--" Her breath came in pants. "He +will--destroy--burn--melt it!" Four men lifted down the huge parcel from +the carriage and turned toward the stone door. "Stop!" she gestured +wildly to them. + +The door flew open. The young scientist stood before her, bowing and +smiling. She shook a knotted finger at him. "Stop those men!" she cried +sternly. + +At a gesture the men waited. She descended from the carriage, shaking +and suspicious, her cane tapping the pavement before her. The Fraeulein +Marie leaped lightly down after her. Her hand had rested for a moment on +the young man's sleeve. A white rose trembled in the fingers. His face +glowed. + +"Is your Highness ready?" he asked. He had moved to the old woman's +side. + +She was standing, one hand on the wrapped parcel, the other on her stout +cane, peering suspiciously ahead. + +"Is your Highness ready?" he repeated. + +"Go on," she said briefly. + +Four men were in the hall when they entered--the director of the Old +Pinakothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the president of the +university, and a young man with a scared, helpful face, who proved to +be a laboratory assistant. + +"They are your witnesses," murmured the young man in her ear. + +She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on the precious parcel. Swiftly the +wrappings were undone, and the picture lifted to a huge easel across the +room. The light fell full upon it. + +The witnesses moved forward in a body, silent. The old face watching +them relaxed. She smiled grimly. + +"Is it a Duerer?" she demanded. She was standing behind them. + +They started, looking at her doubtfully. The artist shrugged his +shoulders. He stepped back a little. The director shook his head with a +sigh. "Who can tell?" he said softly. "The marks----" + +The baroness's eyes glowed dangerously. "I did not suppose you could +tell," she said curtly. + +The young scientist interposed. "It is a case for science," he said +quickly. "You shall see--the Roentgen rays will tell. The +shutters--Berthold." + +The assistant closed them, one by one, the heavy wooden shutters. A last +block of light rested on the shadowy picture. A last shutter swung into +place. They waited--in darkness. Some one breathed quickly, with soft, +panting breath. Slowly a light emerged through the dark. The great +picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till it +shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply and slowly in the bluish patina, +at the edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder of the Christ, a +glimmer of shadow traced itself, faintly and unmistakably. + +Confused murmurs ran through the darkness--the voice of the director--a +woman's breath. + +"Ready, Berthold." It was the voice of the Herr Doctor. + +There was a little hiss, a blinding flash of light, the click of a +camera, and blackness again. + +A shutter flew open. + +In the square of light an old woman groped toward the picture. Her +knotted hands were lifted to it. + +Close at hand, a camera tucked under his arm, the laboratory assistant +stood--on his round, practical face the happy look of successful +experiment. + +A little distance away the Herr Professor Doctor moved quickly. The one +with the rose looked up. + +High above them all--on the great easel, struck by a ray of light from +the shutter--the Duerer Face of Sorrow--out of its four hundred +years--looked forth and waited in the modern world. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Unfinished Portraits, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNFINISHED PORTRAITS *** + +***** This file should be named 30562.txt or 30562.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/6/30562/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rob Reid and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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