Читать книгу The Ruling Passion: Tales of Nature and Human Nature - Henry Van Dyke - Страница 5

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He entered the backwoods village of Bytown literally on the wings of the wind. It whirled him along like a big snowflake, and dropped him at the door of Moody’s “Sportsmen’s Retreat,” as if he were a New Year’s gift from the North Pole. His coming seemed a mere chance; but perhaps there was something more in it, after all. At all events, you shall hear, if you will, the time and the manner of his arrival.

It was the last night of December, some thirty-five years ago. All the city sportsmen who had hunted the deer under Bill Moody’s direction had long since retreated to their homes, leaving the little settlement on the border of the Adirondack wilderness wholly under the social direction of the natives.

The annual ball was in full swing in the dining-room of the hotel. At one side of the room the tables and chairs were piled up, with their legs projecting in the air like a thicket of very dead trees.

The huge stove in the southeast corner was blushing a rosy red through its thin coat of whitewash, and exhaling a furious dry heat flavoured with the smell of baked iron. At the north end, however, winter reigned; and there were tiny ridges of fine snow on the floor, sifted in by the wind through the cracks in the window-frames.

But the bouncing girls and the heavy-footed guides and lumbermen who filled the ball-room did not appear to mind the heat or the cold. They balanced and “sashayed” from the tropics to the arctic circle. They swung at corners and made “ladies’ change” all through the temperate zone. They stamped their feet and did double-shuffles until the floor trembled beneath them. The tin lamp-reflectors on the walls rattled like castanets.

There was only one drawback to the hilarity of the occasion. The band, which was usually imported from Sandy River Forks for such festivities—a fiddle, a cornet, a flute, and an accordion—had not arrived. There was a general idea that the mail-sleigh, in which the musicians were to travel, had been delayed by the storm, and might break its way through the snow-drifts and arrive at any moment. But Bill Moody, who was naturally of a pessimistic temperament, had offered a different explanation.

“I tell ye, old Baker’s got that blame’ band down to his hotel at the Falls now, makin’ ’em play fer his party. Them music fellers is onsartin; can’t trust ’em to keep anythin’ ‘cept the toon, and they don’t alluz keep that. Guess we might uz well shet up this ball, or go to work playin’ games.”

At this proposal a thick gloom had fallen over the assembly; but it had been dispersed by Serena Moody’s cheerful offer to have the small melodion brought out of the parlour, and to play for dancing as well as she could. The company agreed that she was a smart girl, and prepared to accept her performance with enthusiasm. As the dance went on, there were frequent comments of approval to encourage her in the labour of love.

“Sereny’s doin’ splendid, ain’t she?” said the other girls.

To which the men replied, “You bet! The playin’ ‘s reel nice, and good ‘nough fer anybody—outside o’ city folks.”

But Serena’s repertory was weak, though her spirit was willing. There was an unspoken sentiment among the men that “The Sweet By and By” was not quite the best tune in the world for a quadrille. A Sunday-school hymn, no matter how rapidly it was rendered, seemed to fall short of the necessary vivacity for a polka. Besides, the wheezy little organ positively refused to go faster than a certain gait. Hose Ransom expressed the popular opinion of the instrument, after a figure in which he and his partner had been half a bar ahead of the music from start to finish, when he said:

“By Jolly! that old maloney may be chock full o’ relijun and po’try; but it ain’t got no DANCE into it, no more ‘n a saw-mill.”

This was the situation of affairs inside of Moody’s tavern on New Year’s Eve. But outside of the house the snow lay two feet deep on the level, and shoulder-high in the drifts. The sky was at last swept clean of clouds. The shivering stars and the shrunken moon looked infinitely remote in the black vault of heaven. The frozen lake, on which the ice was three feet thick and solid as rock, was like a vast, smooth bed, covered with a white counterpane. The cruel wind still poured out of the northwest, driving the dry snow along with it like a mist of powdered diamonds.

Enveloped in this dazzling, pungent atmosphere, half blinded and bewildered by it, buffeted and yet supported by the onrushing torrent of air, a man on snow-shoes, with a light pack on his shoulders, emerged from the shelter of the Three Sisters’ Islands, and staggered straight on, down the lake. He passed the headland of the bay where Moody’s tavern is ensconced, and probably would have drifted on beyond it, to the marsh at the lower end of the lake, but for the yellow glare of the ball-room windows and the sound of music and dancing which came out to him suddenly through a lull in the wind.

He turned to the right, climbed over the low wall of broken ice-blocks that bordered the lake, and pushed up the gentle slope to the open passageway by which the two parts of the rambling house were joined together. Crossing the porch with the last remnant of his strength, he lifted his hand to knock, and fell heavily against the side door.

The noise, heard through the confusion within, awakened curiosity and conjecture.

Just as when a letter comes to a forest cabin, it is turned over and over, and many guesses are made as to the handwriting and the authorship before it occurs to any one to open it and see who sent it, so was this rude knocking at the gate the occasion of argument among the rustic revellers as to what it might portend. Some thought it was the arrival of the belated band. Others supposed the sound betokened a descent of the Corey clan from the Upper Lake, or a change of heart on the part of old Dan Dunning, who had refused to attend the ball because they would not allow him to call out the figures. The guesses were various; but no one thought of the possible arrival of a stranger at such an hour on such a night, until Serena suggested that it would be a good plan to open the door. Then the unbidden guest was discovered lying benumbed along the threshold.

There was no want of knowledge as to what should be done with a half-frozen man, and no lack of ready hands to do it. They carried him not to the warm stove, but into the semi-arctic region of the parlour. They rubbed his face and his hands vigorously with snow. They gave him a drink of hot tea flavoured with whiskey—or perhaps it was a drink of whiskey with a little hot tea in it—and then, as his senses began to return to him, they rolled him in a blanket and left him on a sofa to thaw out gradually, while they went on with the dance.

Naturally, he was the favourite subject of conversation for the next hour.

“Who is he, anyhow? I never seen ’im before. Where’d he come from?” asked the girls.

“I dunno,” said Bill Moody; “he didn’t say much. Talk seemed all froze up. Frenchy, ‘cordin’ to what he did say. Guess he must a come from Canady, workin’ on a lumber job up Raquette River way. Got bounced out o’ the camp, p’raps. All them Frenchies is queer.”

This summary of national character appeared to command general assent.

“Yaas,” said Hose Ransom, “did ye take note how he hung on to that pack o’ his’n all the time? Wouldn’t let go on it. Wonder what ‘t wuz? Seemed kinder holler ‘n light, fer all ‘twuz so big an’ wropped up in lots o’ coverin’s.”

“What’s the use of wonderin’?” said one of the younger boys; “find out later on. Now’s the time fer dancin’. Whoop ‘er up!”

So the sound of revelry swept on again in full flood. The men and maids went careering up and down the room. Serena’s willing fingers laboured patiently over the yellow keys of the reluctant melodion. But the ancient instrument was weakening under the strain; the bellows creaked; the notes grew more and more asthmatic.

“Hold the Fort” was the tune, “Money Musk” was the dance; and it was a preposterously bad fit. The figure was tangled up like a fishing-line after trolling all day without a swivel. The dancers were doing their best, determined to be happy, as cheerful as possible, but all out of time. The organ was whirring and gasping and groaning for breath.

Suddenly a new music filled the room.

The right tune—the real old joyful “Money Musk,” played jubilantly, triumphantly, irresistibly—on a fiddle!

The melodion gave one final gasp of surprise and was dumb.

Every one looked up. There, in the parlour door, stood the stranger, with his coat off, his violin hugged close under his chin, his right arm making the bow fly over the strings, his black eyes sparkling, and his stockinged feet marking time to the tune.

“DANSEZ! DANSEZ,” he cried, “EN AVANT! Don’ spik’. Don’ res’! Ah’ll goin’ play de feedle fo’ yo’ jess moch yo’ lak’, eef yo’ h’only DANSE!”

The music gushed from the bow like water from the rock when Moses touched it. Tune followed tune with endless fluency and variety—polkas, galops, reels, jigs, quadrilles; fragments of airs from many lands—“The Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Charlie is my Darling,” “Marianne s’en va-t-au Moulin,” “Petit Jean,” “Jordan is a Hard Road to Trabbel,” woven together after the strangest fashion and set to the liveliest cadence.

It was a magical performance. No one could withstand it. They all danced together, like the leaves on the shivering poplars when the wind blows through them. The gentle Serena was swept away from her stool at the organ as if she were a little canoe drawn into the rapids, and Bill Moody stepped high and cut pigeon-wings that had been forgotten for a generation. It was long after midnight when the dancers paused, breathless and exhausted.

“Waal,” said Hose Ransom, “that’s jess the hightonedest music we ever had to Bytown. You ‘re a reel player, Frenchy, that’s what you are. What’s your name? Where’d you come from? Where you goin’ to? What brought you here, anyhow?”

“MOI?” said the fiddler, dropping his bow and taking a long breath. “Mah nem Jacques Tremblay. Ah’ll ben come fraum Kebeck. W’ere goin’? Ah donno. Prob’ly Ah’ll stop dis place, eef yo’ lak’ dat feedle so moch, hein?”

His hand passed caressingly over the smooth brown wood of the violin. He drew it up close to his face again, as if he would have kissed it, while his eyes wandered timidly around the circle of listeners, and rested at last, with a question in them, on the face of the hotel-keeper. Moody was fairly warmed, for once, out of his customary temper of mistrust and indecision. He spoke up promptly.

“You kin stop here jess long’s you like. We don’ care where you come from, an’ you need n’t to go no fu’ther, less you wanter. But we ain’t got no use for French names round here. Guess we ‘ll call him Fiddlin’ Jack, hey, Sereny? He kin do the chores in the day-time, an’ play the fiddle at night.”

This was the way in which Bytown came to have a lover of music among its permanent inhabitants.