Читать книгу A Twentieth Century Idealist - Henry Pettit - Страница 9

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THERE was just enough of chilly winter left to make the springtime fascinating and a wood fire still acceptable in the cozy library where Doctor Wise and his younger friend Paul Warder sat together expecting guests. They occupied bachelor apartments in common. A delicious aroma from wood logs permeated the atmosphere.

There was music also, for the eye as well as the ear. The firelight played in crescendo and diminuendo, with now and again marked rhythm and very peculiar accents. The sound of wheels reverberated clearly in the cool night air and ceased opposite the portal. An expectant waiting, but no response, no frou-frou from silken skirts passing along the hallway as anticipated. Instead, Benson,—Benson the butler, his countenance a foot long.

“Some one, sir!”

“I presume so.”

“Some one, with his—his trunk.”

“His trunk!” The Doctor lowered the bridge of his nose, and peered at Benson over his eye-glasses.

“Yes, sir! a big one.”

“What’s that for? What will he do with it? What will we do with it?”

“Show him up, Benson,” said Paul, promptly; “trunk and all.”

Paul’s eyes twinkled as he vanished through the doorway.

“Never heard of such a thing,” mused the Doctor, “bringing a trunk to a musicale. Must be some mistake! Benson! I say, Benson! Show him next door.”

“Not yet I hope,” and amid shouts of laughter in rushed two fellows,—Paul bringing Henri Semple—“Harry”—of all their musical friends the one most welcome and opportune.

The Doctor was delighted, and gave him a good squeeze—no time for much else.

“Benson! put Mr. Semple’s trunk in his own room, you know the one I mean; and now, Harry, if you don’t get inside that trunk quickly as possible the state of the country will not be safe, an invasion is threatened at any minute. Put on your regimentals at once, and help us out.”

Semple, who understood the Doctor’s lingo from many years back, took in the situation at a glance. He had hardly time to laugh about the Doctor’s being “the same old chappie as ever,” when he was literally thrust towards the stairway, to follow the trunk, and put on his evening clothes.

The episode had been one of Paul’s agreeable surprises so often had in store for the Doctor.

Semple’s name had appeared upon the passenger list of an ocean flyer just arrived. Paul sought him by telephone, caught him, and insisted upon his coming. Semple, already in traveler’s shape, had “hustled” to reach his old friends. The time was short, but Harry in true American fashion had “got there”—that was all, with the regimentals ready to be put on.

It is not necessary to produce the bachelor’s visiting list and mark off all those who honored the occasion with their presence. Paul always made it a point to have plenty of men on hand at his entertainments; whether at chit-chat-musicale or conversational game of whist, all went off with a rush. Those who took their pleasure more seriously were furnished excellent opportunity in the library, while the conversational music-racket progressed in the parlor.

The trio, Doctor, Paul and Semple, were already standing in line, like three serenaders in white waistcoats, when Mrs. Maxwell was ushered in. She had kindly consented to act as matron, knowing all so well; in fact had entertained both Paul and Semple at her picturesque cottage, “The Kedge.” Her vivacious presence at once brought with it a breezy atmosphere from the romantic coast of Maine, where “The Kedge” stood perched like a barnacle upon a boulder, and the winds wafted white spray falling like a lace mantle upon dahlias and nasturtiums at her feet.

And with her Miss Dorothy, her niece, whose charming letters the winter previous from Ischl had given vivid pictures of experience abroad, Vienna life, and Egyptian mysteries known only to herself and the Sphinx.

A dozen or more soon followed. Conversation already at its height when Professor and Mrs. Cultus entered, also their daughter Adele whom the Doctor had before met under such peculiar circumstances at the hospital. Adele looked radiant, having brought with her an intimate friend, Miss Winchester, for whom she had requested an invitation. The Doctor greeted them with both hands, for he had already detected the devotion which had sprung up between these two girls. They seemed a host in themselves wherever they went. He made Miss Winchester feel at home at once, and she accepted the situation promptly; she had the happy faculty of doing that sort of thing. The Doctor enjoyed her frankness. She was like, yet very unlike Adele; no doubt much in common between them, yet of a very different temperament. The inquisitive Doctor perceived this at a glance. “Must read her hand,” he cogitated, for his interest in Adele made him curious to know more of the one to whom Adele seemed especially devoted.

Others dropped in later, the rooms became well filled. The guests sought easy chairs, Paul taking special pains to see that Mrs. Cultus was comfortably settled. Mrs. Cultus in turn had made up her mind to hear Paul sing with the Doctor as accompanist. She had heard that they performed “stunts,” whatever they might prove to be, and now was her opportunity; also, she wished the stunts just as soon as possible. “Keep it up,” said Mrs. Cultus, sotto voce.

Of course Paul could not refuse point blank, but he must be permitted to do so in his own way, for none knew better than he and the Doctor that their music together was of such a peculiar nature that unless led up to judiciously the effect would be utterly ruined. In fact there was nothing in it but “the spirit of the thing,” and little technique whatever except to meet the demand of this spirit of the thing. They had never had either time or inclination to cultivate and keep technique-on-tap,—a thing to be turned on and off like a fountain before an admiring public. Nevertheless, the little they could do gave a deal of pleasure to those not already hypnotized by digital gymnastics, or become satiated from eating too much candy-music.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Cultus’ ideas about leading up to anything in the domain of music had been originally formed upon her experience when leading in the german, and in spite of her short but higher experience in Germany, her natural propensities often prevailed. As to any preparation of the mind and ear for the reception of given musical sounds and kindred forms of artistic and poetic expression, she was lamentably wanting, in fact her tactics often little better than a box of tacks to irritate the acuter sensibilities of those to whom she appealed with so much apparent appreciation. Mrs. Cultus never listened for the tone-color, simply because she could not constitutionally; she really could not, it was not in her to hear what she could hear.

The music commenced, and Mrs. Cultus waited for the stunts. Henri Semple opened with some of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, charmingly vivacious and contagious, also played in some duets with the Doctor on Creole and Florida negro themes. Racial and national dance music seemed not a bad overture to harmonize with the gay spirits already in vogue, yet lead on to something else. Herr Krantz then favored the company with some German songs; he appreciated the value of continuity, yet did not ignore the power of contrast. Herr Krantz was an artist; his first song in rather quick tempo with a dramatic climax, his second full of suppressed emotion; each most artistic in effect. All enjoyed his robust tenor voice, also his admirable interpretation of the sentiment of what he sang. Mrs. Cultus and the Doctor led in the applause; Mrs. Cultus because she detected that the whole thing was as it ought to be, especially the dramatic climax of the first song, and the tears suggested when the second song died away. Mrs. Cultus was much given to applauding when songs died away in tears, she wished the singer to understand that he died with good effect. The Doctor admired all artistic productions and renditions of any kind; even a good performance on a jew’s-harp or a xylophone was appreciated by him from the standpoint of art as art. If it did not manifest the sacred fire of the soul above all else, it was to be enjoyed and applauded nevertheless, as truth for its own sake, if not the highest form of truth through musical expression. He had heard mocking-birds sing like nightingales, yet they were not the veritable rossignole; he had long since learned that perfect technique was not the only way of expression, since the sacred fire burst through all bounds and made terrible mistakes (technical), yet was truth enduring, truth soaring towards immortality and enduring as memory endures.

Paul in the meantime had induced Miss Winchester to follow Herr Krantz; and since his German artistic rendition had excited her imagination, her fingers fairly twitched with desire to respond, ready to the interpretation of what she felt. She knew she could play well because in the mood, delicious sensation.

Miss Winchester’s talent for melodic expression was decidedly of the romantic school. Her idol was Schumann, and at times Tschaikowsky, but never when in their morbid humor, then she shut up their compositions and left them to be morbid alone, not with her. Fact is, Miss Winchester’s versatility and intellectual vivacious activity were so pronounced that she could render many original or rare wild fanciful “morceaux,” provided they were vivacious and embodied with personal experience, or what one might call the racial or national rhythm of those people who did sing and dance naturally. She and her brother were both extremely gifted in this respect, and to hear them play together was not unlike attempting to enjoy two glasses of champagne at the same time.

Miss Winchester was soon leading the whole company through some Mexican danzas with a spontaneous abandon perfectly delightful; then some half-Spanish or old-time Creole reminiscences, very dansante in their time and place, and yet with a peculiar strain of languor which pictured the sunny southern clime in one of its most characteristic moods. Also one of her brother’s waltzes which quite lifted the hearer off his feet, very difficult to interpret as she did; simply because not being a singing waltz, neither of the kind that draws the feet downwards towards the floor in tempo strict and strong, but quite the contrary lifts the dancer up, carries him beyond, without fatigue, borne upon the wings of time into the realm of graceful motion.

Mrs. Cultus could not quite make out whether this strange rhapsodical style of waltzing was quite up to the standard of the occasion. It certainly was rather effective, but not as she ever remembered hearing it in the german. “’Twas impossible to count two or three to such a thing as that and keep up with it;” therefore suspicious. So the politic Mrs. Cultus hid behind her jewelled lorgnette, looking alternately at the performer and the audience before making up her mind.

The susceptible Doctor was quite fascinated, translated, as he entered into the spirit of the thing. He thought of scenes in Delibes’ ballets, of Sylvia and Coppelia, also of the wonderful grace of Beaugrand upon Walpurgis night when she first appears enveloped by a cloud descending upon the stage, the cloud disappearing, the dancer wafted forward to whirl amid a maze of fascinating melody.

Adele and Paul also could not resist the temptation to “try it in the hall,” but soon gave that up; Adele expecting to sing herself, therefore careful of her voice, and Paul because the fascination was quite sufficient without the dancing just then. They were again caught sitting on the stairs under the benign countenance of “Fanny,” the old family clock, who ticked on solemnly as if accustomed to witness waltzing and flirtations, in past times as well as to-night,—this when the Doctor put in an appearance to ask Adele to sing.

Adele was an enchanting personification of youthful enjoyment when Paul led her into the room, her dark eyes lustrous and full of fire, yet but little conscious of self when she at once dropped Paul’s arm to rush up to Miss Winchester and thank her for the treat she had given them. “I never heard you play better in my life, my dear! Oh, how I wish I could do it!” and then, feeling her own position, became more subdued in manner as she approached the piano. Henri Semple had kindly offered to accompany her—they had often sung together as she called it, so felt in unity at once. Only a word was necessary to Henri, “Please go straight on, if I should trip I’ll catch up again.” Henri smiled and began the introduction.

Adele first sang a rather pretentious florid aria. Her mother had insisted upon this, evidently thinking that all should be informed at once that her daughter had been educated under the best masters, as she herself had been under Fraulein Ritter. Adele complied with her mother’s request, even if she herself had different notions as to the result. Mrs. Cultus had “dropped her music” soon after the bills had been paid for her education, and never picked it up again except in nursery rhymes for Adele. Those nursery songs had won their way to Adele’s heart, she sometimes sang them yet, but their greatest triumph had been to excite within her a desire to really sing herself. She now proposed to hold on and not drop what she had striven for, to make her voice the means towards expression of higher things, feelings which words could not always express. As to the florid aria to commence with, “Oh, yes! it would do to try the voice and bring out the notes, but the real thing must not be expected until later.”

Her innermost thoughts were quite in this vein when enthusiastic applause greeted her singing. She had sung well. Herr Krantz complimented her, evidently sincere, so she took his appreciation sincerely, but soon turned to Mr. Semple to select something more to her own taste. She chose a composition with which she was very familiar, one of her special favorites, and passed it to Henri.

Semple glanced it over, and being himself of kindred spirit with her own at once detected certain signs,—how it had been well used but carefully handled, certain passages marked, some private marks, evidently her own.

“Miss Cultus, don’t you play this accompaniment yourself?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I thought so—let me resign!”

“Don’t you know it?—it’s not difficult.”

“So I see, but I’m sure none could play it exactly as you would feel it.”

Adele knew this to be true; no one could really accompany the songs she really loved so completely to her own satisfaction as herself, that was the way she had learned to love them.

“You won’t be offended if I do?”

Semple responded at once and stood beside her, but he felt intensely curious to know exactly why, since she was so different from many, she desired to do so with this particular piece,—the accompaniment did not appear to be especially exacting, so he asked her about the peculiarities of the composition.

“I like to be near the composer, near as I can,” was all she said in reply, and without further ado seated herself at the instrument.

Some noticing her movement were disappointed, others delighted; the latter were those who loved music which came from the heart,—the former those who admired what came from the head.

The Doctor asked her father if she preferred to accompany herself. “Only at times,” said the Professor, and he appeared rather serious himself when he observed the mood she was in. It would probably be Adele at her best, but by no means likely to command the most general appreciation. Then he told the Doctor: “She knows that head and heart must work together as one if any true emotion is to come with the music, and she thinks this is such a subtle matter in her own case that she must become as near like the composer himself as she possibly can to render the music as he originally conceived and felt it. She insists that every good song is fundamentally emotional, the spirit dominating the art. To get close to this spirit in the piece, to become the composer and try to re-create the piece, is what she is after. One soul and mind, the voice soul and the artistic accompaniment; both had come originally from one creative source, the composer, whose whole being must have throbbed with one emotion when he wrote the piece if worth anything. Those who would really feel the same emotion must try to be like him and follow him in spirit and in truth. She wishes to reproduce the intimate sympathetic blending of voice and accompaniment which the composer had felt when he wrote the song.”

“How intensely she must feel!” said the Doctor, pensive, and turned to listen, giving attention to the singer to recognize her personality as creator for the time being of the song,—the singer giving new life, a renaissance or resurrection to the song.

What Adele sang was a melody by Gounod with simple chords in the accompaniment, the piano filling in like a second voice when her own was not prominent. The second voice sang with her, that is, to her and for her, and the two blended as one, a veritable duet of heart and head as one. The piano gave the atmosphere in which the melody lived, moved and had its being, and the melody itself was the voice of a living soul singing in truth and purity.

To sing it as she did required intense mental effort, herself under admirable control;—the dominating emotional spirit within. It was the divine art, the purity in the art, hence divine in origin. Art dominated by the Spirit of Truth that is Holy, in Music. Music as Truth, for a religious fervor lay deep within the song. It was the overflow of her own feelings which others heard and felt, yet she sang as if no one was present,—none,—herself alone,—Adele an Idyl. As she continued, the melody seemed to gain in spiritual significance, so pure, so true, so simply lovely, the good, true and beautiful, as one, a trinity of inner experience, and thus possessing a high spiritual significance. All who heard, associated with her voice their own best thoughts. They “became one” with her,—and while she thus led them towards higher and better things, the melody soared upon the wings of a dove, rising as if nearing the celestial choir. It did not diminish, grow less, nor die away, but passed from hearing; it was heard, and then it was not heard, gone—gone to live among the melodies of immortality, for the truth in her music had made it an immortal song—none could ever forget, neither her, her song, nor how she sang it.

“How angelic!” whispered those who heard her.

“She is an angel,” said her mother, who knew her best.

The Doctor mused; he was still thinking some time after the song ceased. There was to him a feeling of both exhaustion and exaltation,—the human and the divine in his own personality.

As to Paul,—the emotion was rather strong for him, rather too much just then, the complications of feeling decidedly confusing, especially as he would be called upon to sing next. He felt perfectly limp. “What on earth can I do, after an angel has carried the whole crowd into the upper regions!”

The suppressed applause which followed Adele’s sacred song had hardly ceased, the hum of appreciation still heard, and Adele herself about to ask Henri Semple for the bouquet of American Beauties which he held for her, when she caught the eye of Paul and gave him a slight inclination of the head to approach.

Paul had been asked to sing next. She knew it,—she also knew the style of his music, that it could not possibly sound to advantage immediately after her own success. She also knew Paul’s sensibility, yet desire to oblige. In the kindness of her heart, now so sensitive from the holy spirit in music which had prompted her singing, she wished in some way to aid Paul to bridge over the dilemma into which her mother’s lack of appreciation of the personal element in music threatened to lead him, for it was Mrs. Cultus who had insisted upon his singing as soon as Adele finished.

May it not also be said that Adele herself was about to take another step forward in her musical career? namely, by a very practical appreciation of the vast domain of melodic expression,—in other words the comprehensiveness of “the art of putting things” and the wonderful difference in methods and means by which spiritual effects may be produced. She knew that Paul’s voice did appeal to mankind, at least to some, quite as positively as her own; he also was sensitive about it, but his emotional feeling was so different from her own. She wished to be altruistic, and assure Paul fair treatment.

Paul joined her. “I never heard you sing better.”

“I’m glad you were here,—I felt like it,—Gounod is a great friend of mine.”

“I wish I had a friend on hand.”

“How so?”

“To sing for me, my voice is scared to death.”

“It doesn’t sound that way, but I know what you mean.”

“’Pon honor!—the crudity of it! and then to be asked to sing after you.”

“Never mind that, think of the music, and forget yourself.”

“What! forget the music and think of myself!” He had hardly uttered the thought upside down before it seemed to suggest something to him. He said nothing, however, for a moment, and then seemed to brace up, and began talking about other things, until Mrs. Cultus approached.

Adele knew, or rather thought she knew, that if her mother pressed him too hard in his present mood she might receive a refusal in return, a polite apology for not singing. Much to her surprise, Paul consented with considerable cordiality, saying he would do his best gladly; but there was a twinkle in his eye which he could not disguise as he said it. Adele wondered what the twinkle meant. Mamma felt sure he would do “stunts.”

What had influenced Paul so suddenly? The twisted words giving a new association of ideas had suggested yet another motive for singing. “Forget the music, and think of you, Adele.” He had thought of a songlet which did just that sort of thing—he would try it.

Why had Adele failed to appreciate the twinkle? Simply because she did not then know him well enough to recognize one of the strongest elements in his character, namely, a certain sure reserve power which men of his type are apt to possess, and manifest in positions of this sort with marked individuality in form of expression. Paul was just such a man.

With him it had been Adele’s first song, the florid aria to show off her voice, which had made the passing impression, not the second; in fact, the train of thought first excited had continued on through Adele’s second song, blinding him to a certain extent,—so that although he did hear the beautiful finale when her voice passed from hearing, he was preoccupied; he heard it only as another instance of her highly cultivated technique, nothing more. Its real spiritual significance had been lost upon him because his mind was preoccupied in another direction. Having ears he had not heard, yet being what he was, he had; consequently his impressions of her performance were complicated. He had appreciated her cultivated voice as fully, probably, as any in the room, but also remembered how at the hospital some time before she had sung much less ambitious music which excited even greater sympathy, bringing tears rather than applause. He did not wish Adele to lose her charm in that respect, and now, in his present frame of mind, feared lest she might do so. In fact, being somewhat askew in his own mind, yet rather sensitive about her, he jumped to the conclusion that she might give up the old simplicity of real power in order to electrify society by flights of vocalization. Thus the spirituality of a sincere, practical man did not differ fundamentally from that of another with greater æsthetic and artistic development, but the manifestation of it took an entirely different form.

Evidently Paul was quite as much interested in Adele’s success as she was in his,—but how different the motive and varied the form of expressing the emotion. Paul determined to give her some sort of a hint as to how he felt, and in a way she alone would recognize. If he had been older, no doubt he would have told her so direct, but youth is fonder of playing games in which self-reliance takes a prominent part. He made up his mind to sing anyhow, and quick as a flash the thought had come to him, “her effect was through the music, not the words, why not forget the music and think of the words?—try it with a style and with a purpose so different from hers that no comparison can possibly be in order?” He would force attention to the words rather than the music, and compel the audience to listen for the sake of the words. As to sentiment! His eyes twinkled as he thought of it; the audience could interpret that, each after his own fashion,—as for him, he would forget the music and think of Adele.

Paul went to the piano, telling Adele not to listen, as it was only some verses from “Life” which the Doctor had set to music. This was quite enough to excite Adele’s curiosity, and made her more attentive even than the others.

Paul’s voice was a rich baritone with but little cultivation, and fresh as nature had given it to him, with some few rich masculine notes as soft as velvet. When he felt intensely, yet kept himself under control, and the song brought into play those particular notes, Paul could make even a society reporter listen with sincerity. His articulation being clear, the listeners heard the words without effort, and the music became a harmonious medium of communication.

Much to his satisfaction he felt this mood coming over him. The Doctor, too, knew by his manner that Paul would be at his best, so played the accompaniment to sustain the voice, yet allow expression absolutely free with Paul,—a condition of things only possible to those who have personal sympathy as well as melodic instinct.

Each line of the song told its own tale;—the sentiment, not the cultivation of the voice nor accompaniment, attracted attention;—a few gestures gave the proper emphasis.

“She is so fair,

And yet to me

She is unfair

As she can be.

“Were she less fair,

I should be free;

Or less unfair,

Her slave I’d be.

“Fair, or unfair—

Ah! woe is me;

So ill I fare—

Farewell to thee!”

The effect was peculiar. Some caught what they thought were puns in the words, and called for a repetition to catch them better; others said the fellow was a fool to give up the girl so soon,—she was not really so unfair as she appeared to him. Society amused itself hugely over the absurd situation.

Adele turned to the Doctor. “I don’t care for that song.”

“No! Why?”

“The girl was misunderstood.”

“How strange! I didn’t see it that way at all,” said the Doctor.

“What did you see?”

“The young lady did not appreciate her admirer.”

“What is it called?” asked Adele.

“A Paradox.”

Paul overheard them and noticed an introspective expression on Adele’s countenance. Was she trying to recall the words? He would make sure of them, so in response to the encore repeated after this fashion:

“Thou art so fair, and yet to me

Thou art unfair as thou canst be.

“Wert thou less fair, I should be free;

Or less unfair, thy slave I’d be.

“Fair, or unfair—Ah! woe is me;

So ill I fare,—farewell to thee.”

And as he sang, the peculiar twinkle in his eyes again appeared. To the hearers it seemed very appropriate to the song, part of the spirit of the thing. Paul was more interested as to how it would affect Adele.

Adele was more confused than ever. Did he, or did he not, intend anything? She hardly knew how she ought to address him the next minute. It would be foolish to lay any stress upon such a song, merely a play upon words at best; yet her womanly instinct told her it might mean a great deal. She had no time, however, to think much about it, and did not care much anyhow, so tried to put the matter quite aside.

“What absurd words!—not so bad either ... but he certainly made them tell,” and she looked around the room as if to notice what others thought.

People were still discussing the Paradox.

“The impression seems to last,” said she.

The Doctor caught her final word.

“What lasts, Miss Adele?”

A twinkle in her eye this time.

“Paul’s song,—wasn’t it amusing?” and they both laughed heartily.

“The supper is served,” whispered a waiter to the Doctor, and shortly after Adele was seen entering the supper-room on the Doctor’s arm. Paul escorted Miss Winchester.