Читать книгу Tales from Bohemia - Robert Neilson Stephens - Страница 5

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[Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy of the Cosmopolitan Magazine.]

It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged to the orchestra at the —— Theatre, and were returning from a dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on the following night.

Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight.

The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the danger of the icy pavements. “I'm t'ankful to be at last home,” he said, showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red beard. “Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera.”

“Thanks for your solicitude,” I said, “but I must have my walk. Play to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. Good night.”

The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs.

As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf.

My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile:

“My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer.”

We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and matinée duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could not pronounce it.

One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the —— Theatre orchestra.

Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes.

All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to collide with my friend the doctor.

“I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat,” I said. “Won't you join me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster.”

“With pleasure,” he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; “not for your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should remember it.”

“I can never express my regret,” I said. “But you may be able to catch it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?”

“Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong light was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite the house in which I had apartments.”

“Perhaps, then,” I suggested, “the law of association may operate again if you take the trouble to walk back and repass the church in the same manner and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them.”

“By Jove,” said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, “I'll try it. Wait for me here.”

I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His firmly built, comfortable-looking form passed rapidly away. Within five minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face.

“Success!” he said. “I have it, although whether from chance or as a result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window I can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine. Listen.”

As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures composing a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of unrest. I never forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon fixed in my memory.

“And the interesting circumstances under which you heard it?” I interrogated. “Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?”

“There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy.”

“Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't much of the music.”

“I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed herself, by her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and without having more than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I soon learned that she had no knowledge of or taste for music. He had married her, I suppose, for her beauty, and had too late discovered the incompatibility of their temperaments. But he loved her passionately and jealously. One day I heard loud words between them, from which I gathered unintentionally that something had aroused his jealousy. She replied with laughter and taunts to his threats. The quarrel ended with her abrupt departure from the room and from the house.

“He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play in the manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that first responded to his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he eventually gave out the form that I have just whistled.

“Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were with——.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to this day.”

We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm café, with appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me again the husband's name.

“Heinrich Spellerberg.”

“And who had the woman been?”

“I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique.”

“You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?”

“No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong.”

“Do you remember the exact date of the murder?”

“Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever since—forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled—as to-night.”

“And the man, what did he look like?”

“Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and plentiful, especially about the back of his neck.”

“In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?”

“No, it did not recur to me until later.”

“And nothing was said about it by anybody?”

“No one but myself knew anything about it—except the murderer; and unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in the world who have heard it.”

“But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd—quite too good for him to have wasted.”

“Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, wouldn't it?”

“Rather.”

I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an adjacent table.

“What'll it be, Nell?”

“I'll take a dozen panned. I'm hungry enough to eat all the oysters that ever came out of the sea. A rehearsal like that gives one an appetite.”

“A dozen panned, and lobster salad for me, and two bottles of beer,” was the order of the first speaker to the waiter.

I recognized the faces as pertaining to the chorus of the opera company at the —— Theatre. I stopped whistling while I watched them.

Suddenly, like a delayed and multiplied echo of my own whistling, came in a soft hum from one of the girls the notes of the doctor's tragically associated strain of music.

The doctor and I exchanged glances. The girl stopped humming.

“I think that's the prettiest thing in the piece, Maude,” said she.

Undoubtedly it was the comic opera to be produced at the —— Theatre to which she alluded as “the piece.”

“Amazing,” I said to the doctor. “Millocker composed the piece she's talking about. Millocker never killed a wife in Paris. Nor would he steal bodily from another. Perhaps the thing has been interpolated by the local producer. It doesn't sound quite like Millocker, anyhow. I must see about this.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Actors' Club, or a dozen other places, until I find Harry Griffiths. He's one of the comedians in the company at the —— Theatre, and he has a leading part in that piece to-morrow night. He'll know where that tune came from.”

“As you please,” said the amiable doctor. “But I must go home. You can tell me the result of your investigation to-morrow. It may lead to nothing, but it will be interesting pastime.”

“And again,” I said, putting on my overcoat, “it may lead to something. I'll see you to-morrow. Good night.”

I found Griffiths at the Actors' Club, telling stories over a mutton-chop and a bottle of champagne. When the opportunity came I drew him aside.

“I have bet with a man about a certain air in the new piece. He says it's in the original score, and I say it's introduced, because I don't think Millocker did it. This is it,” and I whistled it.

“Quite right, my boy. It's not in the original. Miss Elton's part was so small that she refused to play until the manager agreed to let her fatten it up. So Weinmann composed that and put—”

“This Weinmann,” I interrupted, abruptly, “what do you know about him? Who is he?”

“He's Gustav Weinmann, the new musical director. I don't know anything about him. He's not been long in the country. The manager found him in some small place in Germany last summer.”

“How old is he? Where does he live?”

“Somewhat in forty, I should say. I don't know where he stays. If you want to see him, why don't you come to the theatre when he's there?”

“Good idea, this. Good night.”

I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German town. I would go to him and bluntly say:

“Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?”

Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed.

All the way home the tune rang in my head. I whistled it softly as I began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night. We all were used to his way, and we liked the subdued melodies, the dreamy caprices, the vague, trembling harmonies that stole through the silent house.

I never see moonlight stretching its soft glory athwart a darkened room but I hear in fancy the infinitely gentle yet often thrilling strains that used to float through the still night from the piano as its keys took touch from the delicate white fingers of the professor.

Suddenly the musical summonings of the player assumed a familiar aspect,—that of the tune which I had been singing in my own brain for the past hour.

Then it occurred to me that the professor, being a second violin in the orchestra at the —— Theatre, would doubtless know more about the antecedents of the new musical director than Griffiths had been able to tell me. This was the more probable as the professor himself had come from Germany.

I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through the open door, beheld the professor at the piano.

The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played.

The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain—so often mutual companions—were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, however, I began quietly:

“Professor.”

The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face me, smiling pleasantly.

“Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by your new conductor at the ——”

The professor answered with a laugh:

“Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't matter.”

“Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Ja. And I have many oder to gif sheap, too.”

“But where did you get it?”

“I make it.”

“When?”

“Long 'go. I forget. I have make so many. Dey go away from my mindt an' come again back long time after.”

“Professor, what would you give me to tell you where and when you composed that tune?”

He looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression. It was with an effort that I continued, as I looked straight into his eyes:

“I will hazard a guess. Could it have been in Paris—one day twelve years ago—”

“I neffer be in Paris,” he interrupted, with a start which shocked and convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on:

“What, never? Not even just that night—that 17th of February? Try to recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and—who would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?”

“Hush, my friendt! I not touch her! She kill herself—she try to hang and she shoke her neck. No, no, to you I vill not lie! You speak all true! Mein Gott! Vat vill you do?”

The man was on his knees. I thought of the circumstances, the persons concerned, the high-strung, sensitive lover of music, the coarse, derisive, perhaps faithless woman, and I replied quickly:

“What will I do? Nothing to-night. It's none of my business, anyhow. I'll sleep over it and tell you in the morning.”

I left him alone.

In the morning the professor's door stood ajar. I looked in. Man, clothes, violin case, and valise had gone. Whither I have not tried to ascertain.

When the new opera was produced that evening the —— Theatre orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend.