Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

There. It's Really A Honeymoon-Trip At The Expense Of The C. P. It's

Their Reward For His Work,  For His Santiago Story,  And The Beat And

All That--"

Channing's Face Expressed His Bewilderment.

Norris Drew Back Dramatically.

"Don't Tell Me," He Exclaimed,  "That You Haven't Heard About That!"

Channing Laughed A Short,  Frightened Laugh,  And Moved Nearer To The

Street.

"No," He Said. "No,  I Hadn't."

"Yes,  But,  Good Lord! It Was The Story Of The War. You Never Read

Such A Story! And He Got It Through By Panama A Day Ahead Of All The

Other Stories! And Nobody Read Them,  Anyway. Why,  Captain Mahan Said

It Was 'Naval History,' And The Evening Post Had An Editorial On It,

And Said It Was 'The Only Piece Of Literature The War Has Produced.'

We Never Thought Keating Had It In Him,  Did You? The Consolidated

Press People Felt So Good Over It That They've Promised,  When He

Comes Back From Paris,  They'll Make Him Their Washington

Correspondent. He's Their 'Star' Reporter Now. It Just Shows You That

The Occasion Produces The Man. Come On In,  And Have A Drink With

Him."

Channing Pulled His Arm Away,  And Threw A Frightened Look Toward The

Open Door Of The Dining-Room. Through The Layers Of Tobacco-Smoke He

Saw Keating Seated At The Head Of A Long,  Crowded Table,  Smiling,

Clear-Eyed,  And Alert.

"Oh,  No,  I Couldn't," He Said,  With Sudden Panic. "I Can't Drink;

Doctor Won't Let Me. I Wasn't Coming In,  I Was Just Passing When I

Saw You. Good-Night,  I'm Much Obliged. Good-Night."

But The Hospitable Norris Would Not Be Denied.

"Oh,  Come In And Say 'Good-By' To Him,  Anyhow," He Insisted. "You

Needn't Stay."

"No,  I Can't," Channing Protested. "I--They'd Make Me Drink Or Eat

And The Doctor Says I Can't. You Mustn't Tempt Me. You Say 'Good-By'

To Him For Me," He Urged. "And Norris--Tell Him--Tell Him--That I

Asked You To Say To Him,  'It's All Right,' That's All,  Just That,

'It's All Right.' He'll Understand."

There Was The Sound Of Men's Feet Scraping On The Floor,  And Of

Chairs Being Moved From Their Places.

Norris Started Away Eagerly. "I Guess They're Drinking His Health,"

He Said. "I Must Go. I'll Tell Him What You Said,  'It's All Right.'

That's Enough,  Is It? There's Nothing More?"

Channing Shook His Head,  And Moved Away From The Only Place Where He

Was Sure To Find Food And A Welcome That Night.

"There's Nothing More," He Said.

As He Stepped From The Door And Stood Irresolutely In The Twilight Of

The Street,  He Heard The Voices Of The Men Who Had Gathered In

Keating's Honor Upraised In A Joyous Chorus.

"For He's A Jolly Good Fellow," They Sang,  "For He's A Jolly Good

Fellow,  Which Nobody Can Deny!"

La Lettre D'amour

When Bardini,  Who Led The Hungarian Band At The Savoy Restaurant,  Was

Promoted To Play At The Casino At Trouville,  His Place Was Taken By

The Second Violin. The Second Violin Was A Boy,  And When He Greeted

His Brother Tziganes And The Habitues Of The Restaurant With An

Apologetic And Deprecatory Bow,  He Showed That He Was Fully Conscious

Of The Inadequacy Of His Years. The Maitre D'hotel Glided From Table

To Table,  Busying Himself In Explanations.

"The Boy's Name Is Edouard; He Comes From Budapest," He Said. "The

Season Is Too Late To Make It Worth The While Of The Management To

Engage A New Chef D'orchestre. So This Boy Will Play. He Plays Very

Good,  But He Is Not Like Bardini."

He Was Not In The Least Like Bardini. In Appearance,  Bardini

Suggested A Roumanian Gypsy Or A Portuguese Sailor; His Skin Was

Deeply Tanned,  His Hair Was Plastered On His Low Forehead In Thick,

Oily Curls,  And His Body,  Through Much Rich Living On The Scraps That

Fell From The Tables Of Girot's And The Casino Des Fleurs,  Was Stout

And Gross. He Was The Typical Leader Of An Orchestra Condemned To

Entertain A Noisy Restaurant. His School Of Music Was The School Of

Maxim's. To His Skill With The Violin He Had Added The Arts Of The

Head Waiter,  And He And The Cook Ran A Race For Popularity,  He

Pampering To One Taste,  And The Cook,  With His Sauces,  Pampering To

Another. When So Commanded,  His Pride As An Artist Did Not Prevent

Him From Breaking Off In The Middle Of Schubert's Serenade To Play

Daisy Bell,  Nor Was He Above Breaking It Off On His Own Accord To

Salute The American Patron,  As He Entered With The Belle Of New York,

Or Any One Of The Gaiety Girls,  Hurrying In Late For Supper,  With The

Soldiers In The Park. When He Walked Slowly Through The Restaurant,

Pausing At Each Table,  His Eyes,  Even While They Ogled The Women To

Whom He Played,  Followed The Brother Tzigane--Who Was Passing The

Plate--And Noted Which Of The Patrons Gave Silver And Which Gave

Gold.

Edouard,  The Second Violin,  Was All That Bardini Was Not,

Consequently He Was Entirely Unsuited To Lead An Orchestra In A

Restaurant. Indeed,  So Little Did He Understand Of What Was Required

Of Him That On The Only Occasion When Bardini Sent Him To Pass The

Plate He Was So Unsophisticated As Not To Hide The Sixpences And

Shillings Under The Napkin,  And So Leave Only The Half-Crowns And

Gold Pieces Exposed. And,  Instead Of Smiling Mockingly At Those Who

Gave The Sixpences,  And Waiting For Them To Give More,  He Even Looked

Grateful,  And At The Same Time Deeply Ashamed. He Differed From

Bardini Also In That He Was Very Thin And Tall,  With The Serious,

Smooth-Shaven Face Of A Priest. Except For His Fantastic Costume,

There Was Nothing About Him To Recall The Poses Of The Musician: His

Hair Was Neither Long Nor Curly; It Lay Straight Across His Forehead

And Flat On Either Side,  And When He Played,  His Eyes Neither Sought

Out The Admiring Auditor Nor Invited His Applause. On The Contrary,

They Looked Steadfastly Ahead. It Was As Though They Belonged To

Someone Apart,  Who Was Listening Intently To The Music. But In The

Waits Between The Numbers The Boy's Eyes Turned From Table To Table,

Observing The People In His Audience. He Knew Nearly All Of Them By

Sight: The Head Waiters Who Brought Him Their "Commands," And His

Brother-Musicians,  Had Often Discussed Them In His Hearing. They

Represented Every City Of The World,  Every Part Of The Social

Edifice: There Were Those Who Came To Look At The Spectacle,  And

Those Who Came To Be Looked At; Those Who Gave A Dinner For The Sake

Of The Diners,  Those Who Dined For The Dinner Alone. To Some The

Restaurant Was A Club; Others Ventured In Counting The Cost,  Taking

It Seriously,  Even Considering That It Conferred Upon Them Some

Social Distinction. There Were Pretty Women In Paint And Spangles,

With Conscious,  Half-Grown Boys Just Up From Oxford; Company-

Promoters Dining And Wining Possible Subscribers Or "Guinea-Pigs"

Into An Acquiescent State; Guardsmen Giving A Dinner Of Farewell To

Brother-Officers Departing For The Soudan Or The Cape; Wide-Eyed

Americans Just Off The Steamer In High Dresses,  Great Ladies In Low

Dresses And Lofty Tiaras,  And Ladies Of The Stage,  Utterly

Unconscious Of The Boon They Were Conferring On The People About

Them,  Who,  An Hour Before,  Had Paid Ten Shillings To Look At Them

From The Stalls.

Edouard,  As He Sat With His Violin On His Knee,  His Fingers Fretting

The Silent Strings,  Observed Them All Without Envy And Without

Interest. Had He Been Able To Choose,  It Would Not Have Been To Such

A Well-Dressed Mob As This That He Would Have Given His Music. For At

Times A Burst Of Laughter Killed A Phrase That Was Sacred To Him,  And

Sometimes The Murmur Of The Voices And The Clatter Of The Waiters

Would Drown Him Out Altogether. But The Artist In Him Forced Him To

Play All Things Well,  And For His Own Comfort He Would Assure Himself

That No Doubt Somewhere In The Room Someone Was Listening,  Someone

Who Thought More Of The Strange,  Elusive Melodies Of The Hungarian

Folksongs Than Of The Chefs Entrees,  And That For This Unknown One He

Must Be True To Himself And True To His Work. Covertly,  He Would Seek

Out Some Face To Which He Could Make The Violin Speak--Not Openly And

Impertinently,  As Did Bardini,  But Secretly And For Sympathy,  So That

Only One Could Understand. It Pleased Young Edouard To See Such A One

Raise Her Head As Though She Had Heard Her Name Spoken,  And Hold It

Poised To Listen,  And Turn Slowly In Her Chair,  So Completely Engaged

That She Forgot The Man At Her Elbow,  And The Food Before Her Was

Taken Away Untouched. It Delighted Him To Think That She Knew That

The Music Was Speaking To Her Alone. But He Would Not Have Had Her

Think That The Musician Spoke,  Too--It Was The Soul Of The Music,  Not

His Soul,  That Was Reaching Out To The Pretty Stranger. When His Soul

Spoke Through The Music It Would Not Be,  So He Assured Himself,  To

Such Chatterers As Gathered On The Terrace Of The Savoy Restaurant.

Mrs. Warriner And Her Daughter Were On Their Way Home,  Or To One Of

Their Homes; This One Was Up The Hills Of Lenox. They Had Been In

Egypt And Up The Nile,  And For The Last Two Months Had Been Slowly

Working Their Way North Through Greece And Italy. They Were In

London,  At The Savoy,  Waiting For Their Sailing-Day,  And On The Night

Of Their Arrival Young Corbin Was Giving Them A Dinner. For Three

Months Mrs. Warriner And Himself Had Alternated In Giving Each Other

Dinners In Every Part Of Southern Europe,  And The Gloom Which Hung

Over This One Was Not Due To The Fact That The Diners Had Become

Wearied Of One Another's Society,  But That The Opportunities Still

Left To Them For This Exchange Of Hospitality Were Almost At An End.

That Night,  For The Hundredth Time,  Young Corbin Had Decided It Would

Have Been Much Better For Him If They Had Come To An End Many Weeks

Previous,  For The Part He Played In The Trio Was A Difficult One. It

Was That Of The Lover Who Will Not Take "No" For An Answer. The Lover

Who Will Take No,  And Goes On His Way Disconsolate,  May Live To Love

Another Day,