Maurice Guest Read online

  III.

  It was April, and a day such as April will sometimes bring: one ofthose days when the air is full of a new, mysterious fragrance, whenthe sunshine lies like a flood upon the earth, and high clouds hangmotionless in the far-distant blue--a day at the very heels of which itwould seem that summer was lurking. Maurice Guest stood at his window,both sides of which were flung open, drinking in the warm air, andgazing absently up at the stretch of sky, against which the darkroof-lines of the houses opposite stood out abruptly. His hands were inhis pockets, and, to a light beat of the foot, he hummed softly tohimself, but what, he could not have told: whether some fragment ofmelody that had lingered in a niche of his brain and now came to hislips, or whether a mere audible expression of his mood. The strong,unreal sun of the afternoon was just beginning to reach the house; itslanted in, golden, by the side of the window, and threw on the wallabove the piano, a single long bar of light.

  He leaned over and looked down into the street far below--still no onethere! But it was only half-past four. He stretched himself long andluxuriously, as if, by doing so, he would get rid of a restlessnesswhich arose from repressed physical energy, and also from an impatienceto be more keenly conscious of life, to feel it, as it were, quicken inhim, not unakin to that passionate impulse towards perfection, which,out-of-doors, was urging on the sap and loosening firm green buds: hehad a day's imprisonment behind him, and all spring's magic was at workto ferment his blood. How small and close the room was! He leaned outon the sill, as far out as he could, in the sun. It was shining fulldown the street now, gilding the canal-like river at the foot, andthrowing over the tall, dingy houses on the opposite side, a tawdrybrightness, which, unlike that of the morning with its suggestion ofdewy shade, only served to bring out the shabbiness of broken plasterand paintless window; a shamefaced yet aggressive shabbiness, wherehigh-arched doorways and wide entries spoke to better days, and also toa subsequent decay, now openly admitted in the little placards whichdotted them here and there, bearing the bold-typed words GARCON LOGIS,and dangling bravely yellow from the windows of the cheap lodgings theyproclaimed vacant. It was very still; the hoarse voice of afruit-seller crying his wares in the adjoining streets, was to be heardat intervals, but each time less distinctly, and from the distance camethe faint tones of a single piano. How different it was in the morning!Then, if, pausing a moment from his work, he opened the window andleaned out for a brief refreshment, what a delightful confusion ofsounds met his ear! Pianos rolled noisily up and down, ploughing onethrough the other, beating one against the other, key to key, rhythm torhythm, each in a clamorous despair at being unable to raise its voiceabove the rest, at having to form part of this jumble of discord: someso near at hand or so directly opposite that, none the less, it wasoccasionally possible to follow them through the persistentreiterations of a fugue, or through some brilliant glancing ETUDE, thenotes of which flew off like sparks; others, further away, of whichwere audible only the convulsive treble outbursts and the tonelessrumblings of the bass, now and then cut shrilly through by the piercingsharpness of a violin, now and then, at quieter moments, borne up andaccompanied by the deep, guttural tones of a neighbouring violoncello.This was always discovered at work upon scales, uncertain, hesitatingscales on the lower strings, and, heard suddenly, after the otherinstruments' genial hubbub, it sounded like some inarticulate animalmaking uncouth attempts at expression. At rare intervals there came alull, and then, before all burst forth again together, or fell in, oneby one, a single piano or the violin would, like a solo voice in asymphony, bear the whole burden; or if the wind were in the west, itwould sometimes carry over with it, from the woods on the left, themournful notes of a French horn, which some unskilful player had goneout to practise.

  This was that new world of which he was now a part--into which he hadbeen so auspiciously received.

  Yes, the beginning and the thousand petty disquiets that go withbeginnings, were behind him; he had made a start, and he believed agood one--thanks to Dove. He was really grateful to Dove. A chanceacquaintance, formed on one of those early days when he loitered, timidand unsure, about the BUREAU of the Conservatorium, Dove had taken himup with what struck even the grateful new-comer as extraordinarygood-nature, going deliberately out of his way to be of service to him,meeting him at every turn with assistance and advice. It was Dove whohad helped him over the embarrassments of the examination; it wasthrough Dove's influence that he had obtained a private interview withSchwarz, and, in Dove's opinion, Schwarz was the only master in Leipzigunder whom it was worth while to study; the only one who could berelied on to give the exhaustive TECHNIQUE that was indispensable,without, in the process, destroying what was of infinitely moreaccount, the individuality, the TEMPERAMENT of the student. This andmore, Dove set forth at some length in their conversations; then,warming to his work, he would go further: would go on to speak ofphrasings and interpretations; of an artistic use of the pedals, andthe legitimate participation of the emotions; of the confines ofabsolute music as touched in the Ninth Symphony: would referincidentally to Schopenhauer and make Wagner his authority, using termsthat were new to his hearer, and, now and then, by way of emphasis,bringing his palm down flat and noiselessly upon the table.--It had nottaken them long to become friends; fellow-countrymen, of the same age,with similar aims and interests, they had soon slipped into one of theeasy-going friendships of youth.

  A quarter to five! As the strokes from the neighbouring church--clockdied away, the melody of Siegfried's horn was whistled up from thestreet, and looking over, Maurice saw his friend. He seized his musicand went hastily down the four flights of stairs.

  They crossed the river and came to newer streets. It was delightfulout-of-doors. A light breeze met them as they turned, and a few ragged,fleecy clouds that it was driving up, only made the sky seem bluer, Thetwo young men walked leisurely, laughing and talking rather loudly.Maurice Guest had already, in dress and bearing, taken on a touch ofmusicianly disorder, but Dove's lengthier residence had left no traceupon him; he might have stepped that day from the streets of theprovincial English town to which he belonged. His well brushed clothessat with an easy inelegance, his tie was small, his linen clean, andthe only concession he made to his surroundings, the broad-brimmed,soft felt hat, looked oddly out of place on his close-cut hair. Hecarried himself erectly, swinging a little on his hips.

  As they went, he passed in review the important items of the day:so-and-so had strained a muscle, so-and-so had spoilt a second piano.But his particular interest centred upon that evening'sABENDUNTERHALTUNG. A man named Schilsky, whom it was no exaggeration tocall their finest, very finest violinist was to play Vieuxtemps'Concerto in D. Dove all but smacked his lips as he spoke of it. Inreply to a query from Maurice, he declared with vehemence that thisSchilsky was a genius. Although so great a violinist, he could playalmost every other instrument with case; his memory had become aby-word; his compositions were already famous. At the present moment,he was said to be at work upon a symphonic poem, having for its base anew and extraordinary book, half poetry, half philosophy, a book whichhe, Dove, could confidently assert, would effect a revolution in humanthought, but of which, just at the minute, he was unable to rememberthe name. Infected by his friend's enthusiasm, Maurice here recalledhaving, only the day before, met some one who answered to Dove'sdescription: the genial Pole had been storming up the steps of theConservatorium, two at a time, with wild, affrighted eyes, and a haloof dishevelled auburn hair.--Dove made no doubt that he had been seizedwith a sudden inspiration.

  Gewandhaus and Conservatorium lay close together, in a new quarter ofthe town. The Conservatorium, a handsome, stone-faced building, threelofty storeys high, was just now all the more imposing in appearance asit stood alone in an unfinished street-block, and as, opposite,hoardings still shut in all that had yet been raised of the greatlibrary, which would eventually overshadow it. The severe plainness ofits long front, with the unbroken lines of windows, did not fail toimpress the unused behol
der, who had not for very long gone daily outand in; it suggested to him the earnest, unswerving efforts, imperativeon his pursuit of the ideal; an ideal which, to many, was as it werepersonified by the concert-house in the adjoining square: it washither, towards this clear-limned goal, that bore him, like a magiccarpet, the young enthusiast's most ambitious dream.--But in the lifethat swarmed about the Conservatorium, there was nothing of a tediousausterity. It was one of the briskest times of day, and the shortstreet and the steps of the building were alive with young people ofboth sexes. Young men sauntered to and from the cafe at the corner, orstood gesticulating in animated groups. All alike were conspicuous fora rather wilful slovenliness, for smooth faces and bushy hair, whilethe numerous girls, with whom they paused to laugh and trifle, were,for the most part, showy in dress and loudly vivacious in manner. Onthe kerbstone, a knot of the latter, tittering among themselves, shotfurtive glances at Dove and Maurice as they passed. Here, a pretty,laughing face was the centre of a little circle; there, a bevy of girlsclustered about a young man, who, his hands in his pockets, leanedcarelessly against the door-arch; and again, another, plump and muchbefeathered, with a string of large pearlbeads round her fat, whiteneck, had isolated herself from the rest, to take up, on the steps, amore favourable stand. A master who went by, a small, jovial man in abig hat, had a word for all the girls, even a chuck of the chin for oneunusually saucy face. Inside, classes were filing out of the variousrooms, other classes were going in; there was a noisy flocking up anddown the broad, central staircase, a crowding about the notice-board, agoing and coming in the long, stone corridors. The concert-hall wasbeing lighted.

  Maurice slowly made his way through the midst of all these people,while Dove loitered, or stepped out of hearing, with one friend afteranother. In a side corridor, off which, cell like, opened a line ofrooms, they pushed a pair of doubledoors, and went in to take theirlesson.

  The room they entered was light and high, and contained, besides acouple of grand pianos, a small table and a row of wooden chairs.Schwarz stood with his back to the window, biting his nails. He was ashort, thickset man, with keen eyes, and a hard, prominent mouth, whichwas rather emphasised than concealed, by the fair, scanty tuft of hairthat hung from his chin. Upon the two new-comers, he bent a cold,deliberate gaze, which, for some instants, he allowed to restchillingly on them, then as deliberately withdrew, having--so at leastit seemed to those who were its object--having, without the tremor ofan eyelid, scanned them like an open page: it was the look,impenetrable, all-seeing, of the physician for his patient. At thepiano, a young man was playing the Waldstein Sonata. So intent was heon what he was doing, that his head all but touched the music standingopen before him, while his body, bent thus double, swayed vigorouslyfrom side to side. His face was crimson, and on his forehead stood outbeads of perspiration. He had no cuffs on, and his sleeves were alittle turned back. The movement at an end, he paused, and drawing asoiled handkerchief from his pocket, passed it rapidly over neck andbrow. In the ADAGIO which followed, he displayed an extreme delicacy oftouch--not, however, but what this also cost him some exertion, for,previous to the striking of each faint, soft note, his hand described acurve in the air, the finger he was about to use, lowered, the othersslightly raised, and there was always a second of something likesuspense, before it finally sank upon the expectant note. But suddenly,without warning, just as the last, lingering tones were dying to theclose they sought, the ADAGIO slipped over into the limpid gaiety ofthe RONDO, and then, there was no time more for premeditation: then hishands twinkled up and down, joining, crossing, flying asunder, alertwith little sprightly quirks and turns, going ever more nimbly, untilthe brook was a river, the allegretto a prestissimo, which flew wildlyto its end amid a shower of dazzling trills.

  Schwarz stood grave and apparently impassive; from time to time,however, when unobserved, he swept the three listeners with a rapidglance. Maurice Guest was quite carried away; he had never heardplaying like this, and he leaned forward in his seat, and gazed full atthe player, in open admiration. But his neighbour, a pale, thin man,with one of those engaging and not uncommon faces which, in mould offeature, in mildness of expression, and still more in the cut of hairand beard, bear so marked a likeness to the conventionalChrist-portrait: this neighbour looked on with only a languid interest,which seemed unable to get the upper hand of melancholy thoughts.Maurice, who believed his feelings shared by all about him, was chilledby such indifference: he only learned later, after they had becomefriends, that nothing roused in Boehmer a real or lasting interest,save what he, Boehmer, did himself. Dove sat absorbed, as reverent asif at prayer; but there were also moments when, with his head a littleon one side, he wore an anxious air, as if not fully at one with theplayer's rendering; others again, after a passage of peculiarbrilliancy, when he threw at Schwarz a humbly grateful look. WhileSchwarz, the sonata over, was busy with his pencil on the margin of themusic, Dove leaned over to Maurice and whispered behind his hand:"Furst--our best pianist."

  Now came the turn of the others, and the master's attention wandered;he stretched himself, yawned, and sighed aloud, then, in the search forsomething he could not find, turned out on the lid of the second pianothe contents of sundry pockets. While Dove played, he wrote as if forlife in a bulky notebook.

  Maurice remarked this without being properly conscious of it, soimpressed had he been by the sonata. The exultant beauty of the greatfinal theme had permeated his every fibre, inciting him, emboldeninghim, and, still under the sway of this little elation when his own turnto play came, he was the richer by it, and acquitted himself withunusual verve.

  As the class was about to leave the room, Schwarz signed to Maurice toremain behind. For several moments, he paced the floor in silence; thenhe stopped suddenly short in front of the young man, and, with legsapart, one hand at his back, he said in a tone which wavered betweenbeing brutal and confidential, emphasising his words with a series ofsmart pencil-raps on his hearer's shoulder:

  "Let me tell you something: if I were not of the opinion that you hadability, I should not detain you this evening. It is no habit of mine,mark this, to interfere with my pupils. Outside this room, most of themdo not exist for me. In your case, I am making an exception, because..."--Maurice was here so obviously gratified that the speaker madehaste to substitute: "because I should much like to know how it is thatyou come to me in the state you do." And without waiting for a reply:"For you know nothing, or, let us say, worse than nothing, since whatyou do know, you must make it your first concern to forget." He paused,and the young man's face fell so much that he prolonged the pause, toenjoy the discomfiture he had produced. "But give me time," hecontinued, "adequate time, and I will undertake to make something ofyou." He lowered his voice, and the taps became more confidential."There is good stuff here; you have talent, great talent, and, as Ihave observed to-day, you are not wanting in intelligence. But," andagain his voice grew harsher, his eye more piercing, "understand me, ifyou please, no trifling with other studies; let us have no fiddling, nocomposing. Who works with me, works for me alone. And a lifetime, Irepeat it, a lifetime, is not long enough to master such an instrumentas this!"

  He brought his hand down heavily on the lid of the piano, and glared atMaurice as if he expected the latter to contradict him. Then, noisilyclearing his throat, he began anew to pace the room.

  As Maurice stood waiting for his dismissal, with very varied feelings,of which, however, a faint pride was uppermost; as he stood waiting,the door opened, and a girl looked in. She hesitated a moment, thenentered, and going up to Schwarz, asked him something in a low voice.He nodded an assent, nodded two or three times, and with quite anotherface; its hitherto unmoved severity had given way to an indulgentfriendliness. She laid her hat and jacket on the table, and went to thepiano.

  Schwarz motioned Maurice to a chair. He sat down almost opposite her.

  And now came for him one of those moments in life, which, unlooked-for,undivined, send before them no promise of being di
fferent, in any way,from the commonplace moments that make up the balance of our days. Nogently graduated steps lead up to them: they are upon us with theviolent abruptness of a streak of lightning, and like this, they, too,may leave behind them a scarry trace. What such a moment holds withinit, is something which has never existed for us before, something ithas never entered our minds to go out and seek--the corner of earth,happened on by chance, which comes most near the Wineland of ourdreams; the page, idly perhaps begun, which brings us a new god; theface of the woman who is to be our fate--but, whatever it may be, letit once exist for us, and the soul responds forthwith, catching inblind haste at the dimly missed ideal.

  For one instant Maurice Guest had looked at the girl before him withunconcern, but the next it was with an intentness that soon becameintensity, and feverishly grew, until he could not tear his eyes away.The beauty, whose spell thus bound him, was of that subtle kind whichleaves many a one cold, but, as if just for this reason, is almostalways fateful for those who feel its charm: at them is lanced itsaccumulated force. The face was far from faultless; there was noregularity of feature, no perfection of line, nor was there more than atouch of the sweet girlish freshness that gladdens like a morning inMay. The features, save for a peremptory turn of mouth and chin, wereunremarkable, and the expression was distant, unchanging ... but whatwas that to him? This deep white skin, the purity of which was onlybroken by the pale red of the lips; this dull black hair, which layback from the low brow in such wonderful curves, and seemed, of itself,to fall into the loose knot on the neck--there was something romantic,exotic about her, which was unlike anything he had ever seen: she madehim think of a rare, hothouse flower; some scentless, tropical flower,with stiff, waxen petals. And then her eyes! So profound was theirdarkness that, when they threw off their covering of heavy lid, itseemed to his excited fancy as if they must scorch what they rested on;they looked out from the depths of their setting like those of a wildbeast crouched within a cavern; they lit up about them like stars, andwhen they fell, they went out like stars, and her face took on thepallor of early dawn.

  She was playing from memory. She gazed straight before her withfar-away eyes, which only sometimes looked down at her hands, to aidthem in a difficult passage. At her belt, she wore a costly yellowrose, and as she once leaned towards the treble, where both hands wereat work close together, it fell to the floor. Maurice started forward,and picking it up, laid it on the piano; beneath the gaslight, it sanka shadowy gold image in the mirror-like surface. As yet she had paid noheed to him, but, at this, she turned her head, and, still continuingto play, let her eyes rest absently on him.

  They sank their eyes in each other's. A thrill ran through Maurice, aquick, sharp thrill, which no sensation of his later life outdid inkeenness and which, on looking back, he could always feel afresh. Thecolour rose to his face and his heart beat audibly, but he did notlower his eyes, and for not doing so, seemed to himself infinitelybold. A host of confused feelings bore down upon him, well-nighblotting out the light; but, in a twinkling, all were swallowed up inan overpowering sense of gratitude, in a large, vague, happythankfulness, which touched him almost to the point of tears. As itswelled through him and possessed him, he yearned to pour it forth, tomake an offering of this gratefulness--fine tangle of her beauty andhis own glad mood--and, by sustaining her look, he seemed to lay theoffering at her feet. Nor would any tongue have persuaded him that shedid not understand. The few seconds were eternities: when she turnedaway it was as if untold hours had passed over him in a body, like aflight of birds; as if a sudden gulf had gaped between where he now wasand where he had previously stood.

  Dismissed curtly, with a word, he hung about the corridor in the hopeof seeing her again; but the piano went on and on, unceasingly. Here,after some time, he was found by Dove, who carried him off with loudexpressions of surprise.

  The concert was more than half over. The main part of the hall wasbrightly lit and full of people: from behind, one looked across a seaof heads. On the platform at the other end, a girl in red was playing asonata; a master sat by her side, and leant forward, at regularintervals, to turn the leaves of the music. Dove and Maurice remainedstanding at the back, under the gallery, among a portion of theaudience which shifted continuously: those about them wandered in andout of the hall at pleasure, now inside, head in hand, criticallyintent, now out in the vestibule, stretching their legs, lounging ineasy chat. In the pause that followed the sonata, Dove went towards thefront, to join some ladies who beckoned him, and, while some one sang anoisy aria, Maurice gave himself up to his own thoughts. They all ledto the same point: how he should contrive to see her again, how heshould learn her name, and, beside them, everything else seemed remote,unreal; he saw the people next him as if from a distance. But in a waitthat was longer than usual, he was awakened to his surroundings: a stirran over the audience, like a gust of wind over still water; the headsin the seats before him inclined one to another, wagged and nodded;there was a gentle buzz of voices. Behind him, the doors opened andshut, letting in all who were outside: they pressed forwardexpectantly. On his left, a row of girls tried to start a round ofapplause and tittered nervously at their failure. Schilsky had comedown the platform and commenced tuning. He bent his long, thin body ashe pressed his violin to his knee, and his reddish hair fell over hisface. The accompanist, his hands on the keys, waited for the signal tobegin.

  Maurice drew a deep breath of anticipation. But the first shrill, sweetnotes had hardly cut the silence, when, the door opening once more,some one entered and pushed through the standing crowd. He lookedround, uneasy at the disturbance, and found that it was she: what ismore, she came up to his very side. He turned away so hastily that hetouched her arm, causing it to yield a little, and some moments went bybefore he ventured to look again. When he did, in some tremor, he sawthat, without fear of discovery, he might look as long or as often ashe chose. She was listening to the player with the raptness of apainted saint: her whole face listened, the tightened lips, the opennostrils, the wide, vigilant eyes. Maurice, lost in her presence, grewdizzy with the scent of her hair--that indefinable odour, which hassomething of the raciness in it of new-turned earth--and foolish wishesarose and jostled one another in his mind: he would have liked toplunge both hands into the dark, luxuriant mass; still better,cautiously to draw his palm down this whitest skin, which, seen sonear, had a faint, satin-like sheen. The mere imagining of it set himthrobbing, and the excitement in his blood was heightened by thesensuous melancholy of the violin, which, just beyond the pale of hisconsciousness, throbbed and languished with him under the masterful bow.

  Shortly before the end of the concerto, she turned and made her wayout. Maurice let a few seconds elapse, then followed. But the longwhite corridors stretched empty before him; there was no trace of herto be seen. As he was peering about, in places that were strange tohim, a tumult of applause shook the hall, the doors flew open and theaudience poured out.

  Dove had joined other friends, and a number of them left the buildingtogether; everyone spoke loudly and at once. But soon Maurice and Doveoutstepped their companions, for these came to words over the meansused by Schilsky to mount, with bravour, a certain gaudy scale ofoctaves, and, at every second pace, they stopped, and wheeled roundwith eloquent gesture. In their presence Dove had said little; now hegave rein to his feelings: his honest face glowed with enthusiasm, thenames of renowned players ran off his lips like beads off a string,and, in predicting Schilsky a career still more brilliant, his voicegrew husky with emotion.

  Maurice listened unmoved to his friend's outpouring, and the first timeDove stopped for breath, went straight for the matter which, in hiseyes, had dwarfed all others. So eager was he to learn something ofher, that he even made shift to describe her; his attempt fell outlamely, and a second later he could have bitten off his tongue.

  Dove had only half an ear for him.

  "Eh? What? What do you say?" he asked as Maurice paused; but histhoughts were plainly elsewhere. This
fact is, just at this moment, hewas intent on watching some ladies: were they going to notice him ornot? The bow made and returned, he brought his mind back to Mauricewith a great show of interest.

  Here, however, they all turned in to Seyffert's Cafe and, seatingthemselves at a long, narrow table, waited for Schilsky, whom theyintended to fete. But minutes passed, a quarter, then half of an hour,and still he did not come. To while the time, his playing of theconcerto was roundly commented and discussed. There was none of the tenor twelve young men but had the complete jargon of the craft at hisfinger-tips; not one, too, but was rancorous and admiring in a breath,now detecting flaws as many as motes in a beam, now heaping praise. Thespirited talk, flying thus helter-skelter through the gamut of opinion,went forward chiefly in German, which the foreigners of the party spokewith various accents, but glibly enough; only now and then did one ofthem spring over to his mother-tongue, to fetch a racy idiom or point ajoke.

  Not having heard a note of Schilsky's playing, Maurice did not trusthimself to say much, and so was free to observe his right-handneighbour, a young man who had entered late, and taken a vacant chairbeside him. To the others present, the new-comer paid no heed, toMaurice he murmured an absent greeting, and then, having called forbeer and emptied his glass at a draught, he appeared mentally to returnwhence he had come, or to engage without delay in some urgent train ofthought. His movements were noiseless, but startlingly abrupt. Thus,after sitting quiet for a time, his head in his hands, he flung back inhis seat with a sort of wildness, and began to stare fixedly at theceiling. His face was one of those, which, as by a mystery, preservethe innocent beauty of their childhood, long after childhood is a thingof the past: delicate as the rosy lining of a great sea-shell was thecolour that spread from below the forked blue veins of the temples, andit paled and came again as readily as a girl's. Girlish, too, were thelimpid eyes, which, but for a trick of dropping unexpectedly, seemedalways to be gazing, in thoughtful surprise, at something that wasvisible to them alone. As to the small, frail body, it existed only forsake of the hands: narrow hands, with long, fleshless fingers, nervoushands, that were never still.

  All at once, in a momentary lull, he leant towards Maurice, and,without even looking up, asked the latter if he could recall theopening bars of the prelude to TRISTAN UND ISOLDE. If so, there was acertain point he would like to lay before him.

  "You see, it's this way, old fellow," he said confidentially. "I'vecome to the conclusion that if, at the end of the third bar, Wagnerhad----"

  "Throw him out, throw him out!" cried an American who was sittingopposite them. "You might as well try to stop a nigger in heat asKrafft on Wagner."

  "That's so," said another American named Ford, who, on arriving, hadnot been quite sober, and now, after a few glasses of beer, wasexceedingly tipsy. "That's so. As I've always said, it's a disgrace tothe township, a disgrace, sir. Ought to be put down. Why don't he writethem himself?"

  From the depths of his brown study, Krafft looked vaguely at thespeakers, and checked, but not discomposed, drew out a notebook andjotted down an idea.

  Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Boehmer and a Russian violiniststill harped upon the original string. And, having worked out Schilsky,they passed on to Zeppelin, his master, and the Russian, who was notZeppelin's pupil, set to showing with vehemence that his "method" was aworthless one. He was barely started when a wiry American, in a high,grating voice, called Schilsky a wretched fool: why had he not gone toBerlin at Easter, as he had planned, instead of dawdling on here wherehe had no more to gain? At this, several of the young men laughed andlooked significant. Furst--he had proved to be a jolly little man, who,with unbuttoned vest, absorbed large quantities of beer and perspiredfreely--Furst alone was of the opinion, which he expressed forcibly, inhis hearty Saxon dialect, that had Schilsky left Leipzig at thisparticular time, he would have been a fool indeed.

  "Look here, boys," he cried, pounding the table to get attention."That's all very well, but he must have an eye to the practical side ofthings, too----"

  "DER BIEDERE SACHSE HOCH!" threw in Boehmer, who was Prussian, and of amore ideal cast of mind.

  "--and a chance such as this, he will certainly never have again. Ahundred thousand marks, if a pfennig, and a face to turn after in thestreet! No, he is a confounded deal wiser to stay here and make sure ofher, for that sort is as slippery as an eel."

  "Krafft can tell us; he let her go; is she?--is it true?" shouted halfa dozen.

  Krafft looked up and winked. His reply was so gross and so witty thatthere was a very howl of mirth.

  "KRAFFT HOCH, HOCH KRAFFT!" they cried, and roared again, until theproprietor, a mild, round-faced man, who was loath to meddle with hisbest customers, advanced to the middle of the floor, where he stoodsmiling uneasily and rubbing his hands.

  But it was growing late.

  "Why the devil doesn't he come?" yawned Boehmer.

  "Perhaps," said Dove, mouthing deliberately as if he had a good thingon his tongue; perhaps, by now, he is safe in the arms of----"

  "Jesus or Morpheus?" asked a cockney 'cellist.

  "Safe in the arms of Jesus!" sang the tipsy pianist; but he was outsungby Krafft, who, rising from his seat, gave with dramatic gesture:

  O sink' hernieder, Nacht der Liebe, gieb Vergessen, dass ich lebe ...

  After this, with much laughter and ado, they broke up to seek anothercafe in the heart of the town, where the absinthe was good and thebilliard-table better, two of his friends supporting Ford, who wastestily debating with himself why a composer should compose his ownworks. At the first corner, Maurice whispered a word to Dove, and,unnoticed by the rest, slipped away. For some time, he heard the soundof their voices down the quiet street. A member of the group, indefiance of the night, began to sing; and then, just as one bird isprovoked by another, rose a clear, sweet voice he recognised asKrafft's, in a song the refrain of which was sung by all:

  Give me the Rose of Sharon, And a bottle of Cyprus wine!

  What followed was confused, indistinct, but over and over again heheard:

  ... the Rose of Sharon, ... a bottle of Cyprus wine!

  until that, too, was lost in the distance.

  When he reached his room, he did not light the lamp, but crossed to thewindow and stood looking out into the darkness. The day's impressions,motley as the changes of a kaleidoscope, seethed in his brain,clamoured to be recalled and set in order; but he kept them back; hecould not face the task. He felt averse to any mental effort, in needof a repose as absolute as the very essence of silence itself. The skywas overcast; a wayward breeze blew coolly in upon him and refreshedhim; a few single raindrops fell. In the air a gentle melancholy wasabroad, and, as he stood there, wax for any passing mood, it descendedon him and enveloped him. He gave himself up to it, unresistingly,allowed himself to toy with it, to sink beneath it. Just, however, ashe was sinking, sinking, he was roused, suddenly, as from sleep, by thevivid presentiment that something was about to happen to him: it seemedas if an important event were looming in the near distance, ready toburst in upon his life, and not only instantly, but with a monstrouscrash of sound. His pulses beat more quickly, his nerves stretched,like bows. But it was very still; everything around him slept, and thestreets were deserted.

  A keen sense of desolation came over him; never, in his life, had hefelt so utterly alone. In all this great city that spread, ocean-like,around him, not a heart was the lighter for his being there. Oh, tohave some one beside him!--some one who would talk soothingly to him,of shadowy, far-off things, or, still better, be merely a sympatheticpresence. He passed rapidly in review people he had known, saw theirfaces and heard their voices, but not one of them would do. No, hewanted a friend, the friend he had often dreamed of, whose thoughtswould be his thoughts, with whom there would be no need of speech. Thenhis longing swelled, grew fiercer and more undefined, and a suddenburst of energy convulsed him and struggled to find vent. His breathcame hard, and he stretched his arms out into th
e night, uncertainly,as if to grasp something he did not see; but they fell to his sideagain. He would have liked to sweep through the air, to feel the windrushing dizzily through him; or to be set down before some feat thatdemanded the strength of a Titan--anything, no matter what, to be ridof the fever in his veins. But it beset him, again and again, only byslow degrees weakening and dying away.

  A bitter moisture sprang to his eyes. Leaning his head on his arms, heendeavoured to call up her face. But it was of no use, though hestrained every nerve; for some time he could see only the rose that hadlain beside her on the piano, and in the troubled image that at lastcrowned his patience, her eyes looked out, like jewels, from a settingof golden petals.

  Lying wakeful in the darkness, he saw them more clearly. Now, though,they had a bluish light, were like moons, moons that burnt. If he litthe lamp and tried to read, they got between him and the book, anddanced up and down the pages, with jerky, clockwork movements, likestage fireflies. He put the light out, and lay staring vacantly at thepale square of the window. And then, just when he was least expectingit, he saw the whole face, so close to him and so distinctly, that hestarted up on his elbow; and in the second or two it remained--aMedusa-face, opaquely white, with deep, unfathomable eyes--herecognised, with a shock, that his peace of mind was gone; that thesudden experience of a few hours back had given his life new meaning;that something had happened to him which could not be undone; in otherwords--with an incredulous gasp at his own folly--that he was head overears in love.

  Through the uneasy sleep into which he ultimately fell, she, and theyellow rose, and the Rose of Sharon--a giant flower, with monstrouscrimson petals--passed and repassed, in one of those glorious tangles,which no dreamer has ever unravelled.

  When he wakened, it was broad daylight, and things wore a differentaspect. Not that his impression of the night had faded, but it wasforced to retire behind the hard, clear affairs of the morning. He gotup, full of vigour, impatient to be at work, and having breakfasted,sat down at the piano, where he remained until his hands dropped fromthe keys with fatigue. Throughout these hours, his mind ran chiefly onthe words Schwarz had said to him, the previous evening. They rosebefore him in their full significance, and he leisurely chewed thehoneyed cud of praise. "I will undertake to make something of you,undertake to make something of you"--his brain tore the phrase totatters. "Something" was properly vague, as praise should be, andallowed the imagination free scope. Under the stimulus, everything cameeasy; he mastered a passage of bound sixths that had baffled him fordays. And in this elated frame of mind, there was something almostpleasurable in the pang with which he would become conscious of ashadow in the background, a spot on his sun to make him unhappy.

  Unhappy?--no: it gave a zest to his goings--out and comings-in. Throughlong hours of work he was borne up by an ardent hope: afterwards, hemight see her. It made the streets exciting places of possiblesurprises. Might she not, at any moment, turn the corner and be beforehim? Might she not, this very instant, be going in the same directionas he, in the next street? But a very little of this pleasant dallyingwith chance was enough. One morning, when the houses opposite wereablaze with sunshine, and he had settled down to practice with a keenrelish for the obstacles to be overcome; on this morning, within halfan hour, his mood swung round to the other extreme, and, from now on,his desire to see her again was a burning unrest, which roused him fromsleep, and drove him out, at odd hours, no matter what he was doing.Moodily he scoured the streets round the Conservatorium, disconcertedby his own folly, and pricked incessantly by the consciousness of timewasted. A companion at his side might have dispelled the cobwebs; butDove, his only friend, he avoided, for the reason that Dove's unfailinggood spirits needed to be met with a similar mood. And as for speakingof the matter, the mere thought of the detailed explanation that wouldnow be necessary, did he open his lips, filled him with dismay. Whenfour or five days had gone by in this manner, without result, he tookto hanging about, with other idlers, on the steps of theConservatorium, always hoping that she would suddenly emerge from thedoors behind him, or come towards him, a roll of music in her hand.

  But she never came.

  One afternoon, however, as he loitered there, he encountered hisacquaintance of the very first day. He recognised her while she wasstill some distance off, by her peculiar springy gait; at each step,she rose slightly on the front part of her foot, as if her heels wereon springs. As before, she was indifferently dressed; a small, closehat came down over her face and hid her forehead; her skirt seemedshrunken, and hung limp about her ankles, accentuating the straightnessof her figure. But below the brim of the hat her eyes were as bright asever, and took note of all that happened. On seeing Maurice, sheprofessed to remember him "perfectly," beginning to speak before shehad quite come up to him.

  The following day they met once more at the same place. This time, sheraised her eyebrows.

  "You here again?" she said.

  She disappeared inside the building; but a few minutes later returned,and said she was going for a walk: would he come, too?

  He assented, with grateful surprise, and they set off together in thedirection of the woods, as briskly as though they were on an errand.But when they had crossed the suspension-bridge and reached the quieterpaths that ran through the NONNE, they simultaneously slackened theirpace. The luxuriant undergrowth of shrub, which filled in, likelacework, the spaces between the tree-trunks, was sprinkled with itsfirst dots and pricks of green, and the afternoon was pleasant forwalking--sunless and still, and just a little fragrantly damp from allthe rife budding and sprouting. It was a day to further a friendshipmore effectually than half a dozen brighter ones; a day on which tospeak out thoughts which a June sky, the indiscreet playing of fullsunlight, even the rustling of the breeze in the leaves might scare,like fish, from the surface.

  When they had laughingly introduced themselves to each other MauriceGuest's companion talked about herself, with a frankness that leftnothing to be desired, and impressed the young man at her side veryagreeably. Before they had gone far, he knew all about her. Her namewas Madeleine Wade; she came from a small town in Leicestershire, and,except for a step-brother, stood alone in the world. For several years,she had been a teacher in a large school near London, and the positionwas open for her to return to, when she had completed this, the finalyear of her course. Then, however, she would devote herself exclusivelyto the teaching of music, and, with this in view, she had here taken upas many branches of study as she had time for. Besides piano, which washer chief subject, she learned singing, organ, counterpoint, and theelements of the violin.

  "So much is demanded nowadays," she said in her dear soprano. "And ifyou want to get on, it doesn't do to be behindhand. Of course, it meanshard work, but that is nothing to me--I am used to work and love it.Since I was seventeen--I am twenty-six now--I can fairly say I havenever got up in the morning, without having my whole day mapped andplanned before me.--So you see idlers can have no place on my list ofsaints."

  She spoke lightly, yet with a certain under-meaning. As, however,Maurice Guest, on whom her words made a sympathetic impression, as ofsomething strong and self-reliant--as he did not respond to it, shefell back on directness, and asked him what he had been doing when shemet him, both on this day and the one before.

  "I tell you candidly, I was astonished to find you there again," shesaid. "As a rule, new-comers are desperately earnest brooms."

  His laugh was a trifle uneasy; and he answered evasively, not meaningto say much. But he had reckoned without the week of silence that laybehind him; it had been more of a strain than he knew, and his pent-upspeech once set agoing could not be brought to a stop. An almostphysical need of communication made itself felt in him; he spoke with avolubility that was foreign to him, began his sentences with aconfidential "You see," and said things at which he himself was amazed.He related impressions, not facts, and impressions which, until now, hehad not been conscious of receiving; he told unguardedly of his plansand am
bitions, and even went back and touched on his home-life,dwelling with considerable bitterness on the scant sympathy he hadreceived.

  His companion looked at him curiously. She had expected a casual answerto her casual words, a surface frankness, such as she herself hadshown, and, at first, she felt sceptical towards this unbiddenconfidence: she did not care for people who gave themselves away at aword; either they were naive to foolishness or inordinately vain. Buthaving listened for some time to his outpourings, she began to feelreassured; and soon she understood that he was talking thus at random,merely because he was lonely and bottled-up. Before he had finished,she was even a little gratified by his openness, and on his confidingto her what Schwarz had said to him, she smiled indulgently.

  "Perhaps I took it to mean more than it actually did," said Mauriceapologetically. "But anyhow it was cheering to hear it. You see, I mustprove to the people at home that I was right and they were wrong.Failure was preached at me on every side. I was the only soul tobelieve in myself."

  "And you really disliked teaching so?"

  "Hated it with all my heart."

  She frankly examined him. He had a pale, longish face, with thin lips,which might indicate either narrow prejudice or a fanatic tenacity.When he grew animated, he had a habit of opening his eyes very wide,and of staring straight before him. At such moments, too, he tossedback his head, with the impatient movements of a young horse. His handsand feet were good, his clothes of a provincial cut. Her fingers itchedto retie the bow of his cravat for him, to pull him here and there intoshape. Altogether, he made the impression upon her of being a veryyoung man: when he coloured, or otherwise grew embarrassed, under hersteady gaze, she mentally put him down for less than twenty. But he hadgood manners; he allowed her to pass before him, where the way grewnarrow; walked on the outside of the path; made haste to draw back anobstreperous branch; and not one of these trifling conventionalitieswas lost on Madeleine Wade.

  They had turned their steps homewards, and were drawing near the edgeof the wood, when, through the tree-trunks, which here were bare andfar apart, they saw two people walking arm in arm; and on turning acorner found the couple coming straight towards them, on the same pathas themselves. In the full flush of his talk, Maurice Guest did not atfirst grasp what was about to happen. He had ended the sentence he wasat, and begun another, before the truth broke on him. Then hestuttered, lost the thread of his thought, was abruptly silent; andwhat he had been going to say, and what, a moment before, had seemed ofthe utmost importance, was never said. His companion did not seem tonotice his preoccupation; she gave an exclamation of what sounded likesurprise, and herself looked steadily at the approaching pair. Thusthey went forward to a meeting which the young man had imagined tohimself in many ways, but not in this. The moment he had waited for hadcome; and now he wished himself miles away. Meanwhile, they walked on,in a brutal, matter-of-fact fashion, and at a fairish pace, though eachstep he took was an event, and his feet were as heavy and awkward as ifthey did not belong to him.

  The other two sauntered towards them, without haste. The man she waswith had his arm through hers, her hand in his left hand, while in hisright he twirled a cane. They were not speaking; she looked before her,rather listlessly, with dark, indifferent eyes. To see this, to seealso that she was taller and broader than he had believed, and in fulldaylight somewhat sallow, Maurice had first to conquer an aversion tolook at all, on account of the open familiarity of their attitude. Itwas not like this that he had dreamt of finding her. And so it happenedthat when, without a word to him, his companion crossed the path andconfronted the other two, he only lingered for an instant, in an agonyof indecision, and then, by an impulse over which he had no control,walked on and stood out of earshot.

  He drew a deep breath, like one who has escaped a danger; but almostsimultaneously he bit his lip with mortification: could any power onearth make it clear to him why he had acted in this way? All histhoughts had been directed towards this moment for so long, only totake this miserable end. A string of contemptuous epithets for himselfrose to his lips. But when he looked back at the group, the reason ofhis folly was apparent to him; at the sight of this other beside her, asharp twinge of jealousy had run through him and disturbed his balance.He gazed ardently at her in the hope that she would look round, but itwas only the man--he was caressing his slight moustache and hitting atloose stones while the girls talked--who turned, as if drawn byMaurice's stare, and looked full at him, with studied insolence. Inhim, Maurice recognised the violinist of the concert, but he, too, wastaller than he had believed, and much younger. A mere boy, said Mauriceto himself; a mere boy, with a disagreeable dissipated face.

  Madeleine Wade came hurrying to rejoin him, apologising for the delay;the meeting had, however, been fortunate, as she had had a message fromSchwarz to deliver. Maurice let a few seconds elapse, then askedwithout preamble: "Who is that?"

  His companion looked quickly at him, struck both by his tone and by hisunconscious use of the singular. The air of indifference with which hewas looking out across the meadowland, told its own tale.

  "Schilsky? Don't you know Schilsky? Our Joachim IN SPE?" she asked, totease him.

  Maurice Guest coloured. "Yes, I heard him play the other night," heanswered in good faith. "But I didn't mean him. I meant the--the ladyhe was with."

  The girl at his side laughed, not very heartily.

  "ET TU, BRUTE!" she said. "I might have known it. It really isremarkable that though so many people don't think Louise goodlooking--Ihave often heard her called plain--yet I never knew a man go past herwithout turning his head.--You want to know who and what she is? Well,that depends on whom you ask. Schwarz would tell you she was one of hismost gifted pupils--but no: he always says that of his pretty girls,and some do find her pretty, you know."

  "She is, indeed, very," said Maurice with warmth. "Though I thinkpretty is not just the word."

  "No, I don't suppose it is," said Madeleine, and this time there was anote of mockery in her laugh. But Maurice did not let himself bedeterred. As it seemed likely that she was going to let the subjectrest here, he persisted: "But suppose I asked you--what would you say?"

  She gave him a shrewd side-glance. "I think I won't tell you," shesaid, more gravely. "If a man has once thought a girl pretty, and allthe rest of it, he's never grateful for the truth. If I said Louise wasa baggage, or a minx, or some other horrid thing, you would always bearme a grudge for it, so please note, I don't say it--for we are going tobe friends, I hope?"

  "I hope so, too," said the young man.

  They walked some distance along the unfinished end of theMOZARTSTRASSE, where only a few villas stood, in newly made gardens.

  "At least, I should like to know her name her whole name. You saidLouise, I think?"

  She laughed outright at this. "Her name is Dufrayer, Louise Dufrayer,and she has been here studying with Schwarz for about a year and a halfnow. She has some talent, but is indolent to the last degree, and onlyworks when she can't help it. Also she always has an admirer of somekind in tow. This, to-day, is her last particular friend.--Is thatbiographical matter enough?"

  He was afraid he had made himself ridiculous in her eyes, and did notanswer. They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her house-door,they paused to take leave of each other.

  "Good-bye. Come and see me sometimes when you have time. We were oncecolleagues, you know, and are now fellow-pupils. I should be glad tohelp you if you ever need help."

  He thanked her and promised to remember; then walked home without,knowing how he did it. He had room in brain for one thought only; heknew her name, he knew her name. He said it again and again to himself,walked in time with it, and found it as heady as wine; the mere soundof the spoken syllables seemed to bring her nearer to him, to establisha mysterious connection between them. Moreover, in itself it pleasedhim extraordinarily; and he was vaguely grateful to something outsidehimself, that it was a name he could honestly admire.

  In a kind of defia
nt challenge to unseen powers, he doubled his arm andfelt the muscles in it. Then he sat down at his piano, and, to thedismay of his landlady--for it was now late evening--practised for acouple of hours without stopping. And the scales he sent flying up anddown in the darkness had a ring of exultation in them, were like criesof triumph.

  He had discovered the "Open Sesame" to his treasure. And there was timeand to spare. He left everything to the future, in blind trust that itwould bring him good fortune. It was enough that they were heretogether, inhabitants of the same town. Besides, he had formed afriendship with some one who knew her; a way would surely open up, inwhich he might make her aware of his presence. In the meantime, it wassomething to live for. Each day that dawned might be THE day.

  But little by little, like a fountain run dry, his elation subsided,and, as he lay sleepless, he had a sudden fit of jealous despair. Heremembered, with a horrid distinctness, how he had seen her. Again shecame towards them, at the other's side, hand in hand with him,inattentive to all but him. Now he could almost have wept at therecollection. Those clasped hands!--he could have forgiven everythingelse, but the thought of these remained with him and stung him. Here helay, thinking wild and foolish things, building castles that had noearthly foundation, and all the time it was another who had the rightto be with her, to walk at her side, and share her thoughts. Again hewas the outsider; behind these two was a life full of detail andcircumstance, of which he knew nothing. His excited brain called uppictures, imagined fiercely at words and looks, until the darkness andstillness of the room became unendurable; and he sprang up, threw onhis clothing, and went out. Retracing his steps, he found the very spotwhere they had met. Guiltily, with a stealthy look round him, thoughwood and night were black as ink, he knelt down and kissed the gravelwhere he thought she had stood.