Kitabı oku: «Perkins, the Fakeer», sayfa 8

CHAPTER III.
BIOGRAPHICAL DATA

 
And, to meet us, nectar fountains still
Poured forever forth their blissful rill;
Forcibly we broke the seal of Things,
And to Truth's bright sunny hills our wings
Joyously were soaring.
 

SCHILLER.

It was a real relief to get into the library. Tom felt it, and his face soon resumed its normal expression. The heavy shadows beneath his eyes remained, but there had come a flush into his cheeks, and he carried himself with the air of a man who has a purpose in life and is in a fair way to accomplish it. I remember that the idea came into my mind that Tom had assumed the attitude of a lawyer who has been retained by the prosecution and has but little time in which to prepare his case. I had grown tactless, I fear, in my change of mood, for I was indiscreet enough to say, as Tom seated himself beside the library-table, leaving it to me to find the books that he wished to consult; "In the case of Winifred Remsen and others, against the late Frederic François Chopin, charged with house-breaking and breach of the peace."

Tom turned instantly, and a gleam of anger flashed in his eyes as they met mine. "If you cannot treat this matter with the seriousness that I think that it deserves, Winifred, you would do well to retire. It's no joke. When I make a donkey of myself before a lot of perfectly respectable people, I consider it a matter of some importance. You don't seem to grasp the full horror of it all. I suppose that I'm liable to have another attack at any time. In fact, it may become chronic. I have of late come across very curious psychical phenomena in a professional way, Winifred, and I insist on taking every precaution before you are forced to place me in the hands of the alienists."

"Tom!" I cried, in horror, and remorse. "You mustn't talk like that. There's nothing the matter with your mind. I'll admit that I can't explain what happened to-night, but I'm sure that it was not caused by any mental trouble on your part. There is doubtless some very simple and commonplace explanation of your–your–"

"Call it seizure," suggested Tom, curtly. "What do you find there?"

I carried a little armful of books to the table, and placed them within Tom's reach.

"Here's a 'Life of Chopin,' by Niecks," I said. "'Frederic Chopin,' by Franz Liszt. Here's Joseph Bennett and Karasowski and the 'Histoire de ma Vie,' by George Sand. And here are Willeby and Mme. Audley. And I think I have–"

"That'll do for to-night," remarked Tom, seizing the volume nearest to his hand. "What kind of a chap was this Chopin, anyway?"

"He was simply fascinating," I remarked, indiscreetly.

"H'm!" growled Tom, angrily. "Not very respectable, I suppose you mean. George Sand! She was a woman, wasn't she? How did she happen to write his life? What did she know about him?"

I have called Tom a Philistine. Perhaps that was too harsh a term to use, but I'm sure there is a good deal of the Puritan about him.

"She used to see a good deal of him," I answered, rather lamely. "They were great chums for a while."

"H'm," growled Tom, throwing aside George Sand's work and opening another. Presently, he began to read biographical scraps aloud, for all the world like an angry police official drawing up a sweeping indictment against a man of genius.

"'The little Frederick duly received the name of Frederic François, after the son of Count Sharbek, who stood as his godfather,'" began Tom. "'We are told that he very soon showed a great susceptibility to musical sounds, although hardly in the direction which we should have expected, for he howled lustily whenever he heard them.'"

Tom looked up from the printed page, and our eyes met.

"That's a curious coincidence, Winifred," he remarked, musingly. "It's a family tradition that I used to yell like a young Indian whenever they tried to sing to me in my babyhood. A rattle-box would quiet me, but the sweetest lullaby always made me howl. But I must get on. Chopin began well, didn't he?"

There was silence for a time as Tom feverishly scanned the pages of his book.

"The dickens! Listen to this!" he exclaimed, presently. "'During his ninth year he was invited to assist at a concert for the benefit of the poor. He played a pianoforte concerto, the composition of Adalbert Gyrowetz, a famous composer of the time.'"

Tom placed the book on the table, and held the pages open with his hand as he glanced at me over his shoulder. "If he played that kind of thing at nine years of age, Winifred, there was something uncanny about it. It was just as unnatural as what happened to me to-night. I'm beginning to formulate a theory about this kind of thing, my dear." Tom placed the open book face downward, and turned squarely toward me. "Music, you see, may be, like electricity, imprisoned, as it were, in a universe of both conductors and non-conductors. It may be that a temperament, like mine for instance, that is permanently a non-conductor might, under given conditions become temporarily a conductor. Chopin played like a master at nine years of age. He had become a conductor, and remained so permanently. When he howled at music as a baby he was still a non-conductor–just as I had been up to to-night–or rather last night. Possibly, the conditions that made me a kind of spasmodic music-box, with the Chopin peg pulled out, may never occur again. What do you think, Winifred? Doesn't all that sound reasonable?"

Before I could formulate a sensible answer to a not very sensible proposition Tom had resumed the perusal of his book. He appeared to me like a man fascinated against his will by a line of investigation that he had begun as a disagreeable duty. But I was glad to see that he had regained full control of himself, and that his countenance no longer displayed traces of intense mental disquietude.

"He was a pretty lively boy," remarked Tom, a few moments later. "Listen, Winifred! 'At school, Frederic was a prime favorite, and was always in the midst of any fun or mischief that was going on. His talent for mimicry was always extraordinary, and has been commented on not only by George Sand and Liszt but by Balzac.'"

Tom gazed at me, musingly. "Do you consider that significant, my dear?" he asked, with a seriousness that struck me as both ludicrous and pathetic. I was getting worried by Tom's persistence in this futile line of endeavor.

"It's nearly three o'clock, Tom Remsen," I cried, standing erect. "Come up-stairs at once. It won't be fair to your clients for you to get to your office fagged out for lack of sleep."

"Sit down, Winifred," he said, peremptorily. "It's little use I'll be to my clients until I find out what happened to me in the music-room. Suppose that I should have an attack of–what shall I call it?–Chopinitis–in the court-room? I should suddenly begin to sing–or perhaps whistle a–what-d'you-call'em?–pianoforte concerto–what would the judge say? I'd be disbarred, Winifred, for indecent exposure of musical genius. No; I'm going to find out more about this strange affair–here and now."

I was forced to reseat myself, protesting silently against Tom's absurd stubbornness. I endeavored in vain to shake off a feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over me, a sensation that was closely akin to fear of the phlegmatic man who sat before me motionless and calm, pursuing a course of study that had been inspired by a most untenable supposition. What had Chopin to do with the matter? What difference could it make to Tom whether the latter had been one kind of man or another? It was ridiculous to assert that in Chopin's personality might be found an explanation of the curious incident that had made my musical so memorable. My prejudice against Spiritualists, Christian Scientists, Theosophists and other eccentrics had been, I had believed, shared by my husband. But there he sat at three o'clock in the morning trying to find among the biographical data before him some explanation of his recent "seizure," that must, of necessity, lean toward the occult. That a well-balanced, rather materialistic lawyer, whose mental methods were habitually logical, should suddenly begin to dabble in psychical mysteries in this way frightened me the more the longer I weighed Tom's words and actions in all their bearings. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself that he had never looked saner in his life than he did at that moment, as he turned from his book again and gazed straight into my tired eyes.

"He was a very flirtatious chap, Winifred, and very fickle. Listen to this: 'Although of a peculiarly impressionable and susceptible disposition, and, as a not unnatural consequence, more or less fickle where women were concerned, Chopin's love affairs did, on more than one occasion, assume a serious aspect. He had conceived a fancy for the granddaughter of a celebrated master, and although contemplating matrimony with her, he had at the same time in his mind's eye another lady resident in Poland, his loyalty being engaged nowhere and his fickle heart concentrated on no one passion. One day, when visiting the former young lady in company with a musician who was at the time better known in Paris that he himself, she unconsciously offered a chair to his companion first. So piqued was he at what he considered a slight that he not only never called on her again, but dismissed her entirely from his thoughts.' Do you begin to see, Winifred, what a queer fellow he was? Really, I'm inclined to think–"

I was standing erect, gazing at him, angrily.

"If you are joking, Tom," I exclaimed, having lost all patience, "I think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really in earnest, I am very sorry for you. I'm going to bed. I hope I'll find you fully recovered at breakfast."

He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper.

"Wait just a moment, Winifred," he suggested, his eyes fixed on his book. "Here it is about George Sand–their first meeting, you know. Wait! I'll read it to you."

"I shall not wait, Tom Remsen," I cried. "Chopin's love affairs are nothing to me–and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is my last word. Good night."

As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust-heap of an old scandal that seemed to fascinate him–Tom Remsen, who had hitherto always deprecated and avoided that kind of research.

CHAPTER IV.
SIGNORINA MOLATTI

 
And thou, too–when on me fell thine eye,
What disclos'd thy cheek's deep-purple dye?
 

SCHILLER.

Two days went by, and while I still pondered the great mystery and kept a close watch on Tom, I had begun to hope that the exactions of his profession had led him to abandon his effort to explain what he had called his "seizure." He had been busy of late with the technicalities involved in the formation of a new trust, and his mind seemed to be wholly engrossed by this gigantic task. By tacit consent we had both avoided all reference to my recent musical and its weird and inexplicable outcome. At times, I was almost inclined to believe that Tom had forgotten Chopin and all his works.

As for myself, I could not recover a normal state of mind. For the first time in my life, I felt an admiration for the very characteristics of my husband's make-up that hitherto had annoyed and wearied me. His ability to rebound at once from the shock that he had sustained filled me with both envy and amazement. I had begun to realize that the mental poise of an unimpressionable, unimaginative man is a very desirable and praise-worthy possession.

I regretted at times that I could not throw myself into some despotic occupation that should demand all my physical and mental energies. As yet, I had not found the courage to face the world and its questionings. For two days, I had denied myself to even my most intimate friends, not excepting Mrs. Jack Van Corlear, who had hurried to me on the day succeeding my musical. I knew that my callers were actuated by a not unnatural curiosity, and I lacked the nervous energy to face people who would politely claim the right to know why Tom had always concealed his genius as a pianist. I think I fully understand the set in which I move. We dearly love a new sensation. Without leaving my house or receiving a single visitor, I could readily grasp the fact that the leading topic of conversation in society at the moment revolved around Tom Remsen as a masterly interpreter of Chopin.

Chopin! I had begun to hate the name. But I had not been able to resist the temptation to spend many hours in the library poring over the books that dealt, directly or indirectly, with his personality and achievements. The temporary enthusiasm that Tom had displayed for research into the life of Frederic Chopin bade fair to become a permanent passion in my case. I devoted whole afternoons to playing, in my amateurish way, his waltzes, mazurkas, nocturnes and ballads. One of the latter, his Opus 47, I had not the audacity to attempt. Somehow, Tom's recent rendition of the piece seemed to stand as a barrier that it would be sacrilege for me to cross. Nevertheless, I longed to hear the ballad again, and was almost tempted to ask Tom to play it to me alone. That he was wholly incapable of repeating his recent performance, my mind refused to believe. I had returned, almost unconsciously, to my first conviction, that my husband had wilfully deceived me for years regarding his musical ability.

I sat poring over an English criticism of Chopin's posthumous works late one afternoon when a card was brought to me in the library that tempted me to come out of my self-imposed retreat. It bore the name:

SIGNORINA MOLATTI

In the half-light of the drawing-room, the girl looked handsomer than in the glare of evening lamps. Her dark, oriental beauty was at its best in the subdued glow of early twilight. She was dressed in a rich but quiet Parisian costume, and I felt that her attractiveness increased the further she was removed from Signor Turino, Mlle. Vanoni and the other noted artists with whom she associated. Nevertheless, I realized that my manner was cold and unsympathetic as we seated ourselves and I awaited her pleasure. Having had business dealings with the signorina I was not willing to admit that she could assume the right to call on me as a social equal.

But patrician blood must have flowed in Molatti's veins, for she sat there silent and calm, and my skirmish line was driven back. I spoke first. The self-confidence in the girl's smile hurt me.

"It is a pleasure, signorina, to have an opportunity I had not hoped for, to thank you again for the great pleasure you afforded my guests the night before last."

"But it is me, signora, who is in the debt of you," said Molatti, in her soft, musical, broken English. "I hava coma to you to thanka you and to ask a leetle favor. Signor Remsen! oh, eet was so wonderful–so vera wonderful! I hava waited all my leetle life for eet."

I stared at the girl in astonishment. Her enthusiasm, her gestures, the brilliant glow in her dark eyes offended me. And "eet!" What was "eet," for which she had waited all her life?

"Yes?" I remarked, interrogatively. Her fervor was not cooled by the iced water of my question mark.

"Leesten to me, signora. I hava worsheeped Chopin since I was a leetle girl. I have heard alla the great interpretaires of the maestro. But I have nevaire heard Chopin. In my dreams–si, signora, but nevaire in my hours that are awake. But I cama here! Signor Remsen–he playa Chopin! Eet was no dream. Eet was the soul of the maestro speaking to the soul of me. Eet was wonderful–so vera wonderful!"

Conflicting emotions warred within me. I hardly dared speak lest I should either laugh or cry hysterically. With lips compressed I sat motionless, staring at the girl, into whose eloquent eyes there had come a pleading look that suggested tears.

"Signor Remsen," she murmured, presently, like a devotee who breathes the name of an idol–"do you thinka, signora, that he would let me hear him play again? Peety me, signora! I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I crave only the music of the maestro--music that I hava heard only once in my leetle life. Signor Remsen! Eef he would permeet me–justa once–to accompany him on my leetle violin–oh, signora, I coulda then die happy. I should hava leeved just a leetle while, and then I would not care. But now, I am so unhappy–so vera miserable!"

I was too nervous to stand this kind of thing any longer. I rose, and Molatti faced me, erect at once.

"You pay my husband's talent a great compliment, signorina," I said, coldly; "but I cannot take it on myself to answer you in his name. However, I shall present your request to him and let you know at once what he says." A diabolical impulse came over me, and I added: "Of course, Mr. Remsen would not wish you to starve, signorina, nor to die a horrible death from insomnia."

The girl spiked my guns–if that be the right expression–by a merry, musical laugh.

"You are so vera kind!" she cried. "I kissa your lovely hand."

Before I could prevent it she had touched my outstretched hand with her red, smiling lips; then she took her departure. I returned to the library in a condition that verged dangerously on complete nervous collapse.

At dinner that evening, Tom was unwontedly silent. As I glanced at him over my soup there was something in his face that suggested thoughts not connected with the Pepper and Salt Trust. I was soon to become accustomed to this expression and to identify it in my mind as "Chopinesque."

"Aren't you feeling well to-night, Tom?" I ventured presently, noting that he was drinking more wine than usual.

"A bit tired, Winifred," he answered, absently. Then his eyes met mine, and I saw that he was worried. I had planned to fulfill conscientiously my promise to Signorina Molatti, but the time seemed inopportune. I was glad, presently, that I had refrained from mentioning my caller and her mission. As we were sipping our coffee Tom tossed an envelope across the table to me.

I opened it with a chill misgiving. It ran as follows:

MR. THOMAS REMSEN.

DEAR SIR: As it has come to the knowledge of the Executive Committee of the Chopin Society of New York that your rendition of the works of our master is unexcelled by any living performer, we humbly beg of you to accept the hospitality of our association at an early date, to be chosen by you. Our members and their guests would consider it the highest of privileges could they be permitted to hear you play such selections from Chopin as you might wish to perform. Thanking you in advance for the great joy that you will vouchsafe to us by accepting this invitation, we remain, etc.

There lay a wan smile on Tom's face as he met my gaze. "Kind, aren't they?" he muttered. "What the deuce'll I write to 'em, Winifred?"

"You can't accept, of course," I said, confidently. Then I hesitated, surprised at the queer gleam in Tom's eyes. "Can you?" I added, weakly.

"I can, I suppose," he remarked, with an effort at playfulness. "There's no law against it."

His answer struck me as strangely unlike him. If he had cried, "The Chopin Society be damned!" I should have felt more at ease, less oppressed by a sensation of nameless dread. There was something distinctly uncanny in Tom's manner.

"It would be a good joke on 'em, wouldn't it, if I should accept their bid?" he remarked as he lighted his cigar. "Confound their impudence! That's what they deserve."

"But–but–Tom, would you try to–to play?" I gasped, in dismay.

Tom laughed in a way that shocked my overwrought nerves. It was a shrill, unnatural note of merriment, that struck me as diabolical. "Play?" he repeated, sardonically. "Why not? Do you imagine, madame, that the marvelous genius of Thomas Remsen, interpreter of Frederic François Chopin, is to be confined strictly to your musicals? That would be a gross injustice to the music-loving world, would it not? But come into the library with me, Winifred. I must resume my studies as a student of 'the master.'"

I followed Tom mechanically, fascinated by his gruesome mood. For the life of me I couldn't tell whether he was joking or in earnest, whether it was his mind or mine that had lost its poise.