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

Puzzled Her To Find That She Could Not Care. When She Was Alone She

Asked Herself What There Was In Him Of Which She Disapproved,  And She

Could Only Answer That There Was Nothing. She Asked Herself What

Other Men There Were Who Pleased Her More,  And She Could Think Of

None. On The Contrary,  She Found Him Entirely Charming As A Friend--

But His Love Distressed Her Greatly. It Was A Foreign Language; She

Could Not Comprehend It. When He Allowed It To Appear It Completely

Disguised Him In Her Eyes; It Annoyed Her So Much That At Times She

Considered Herself A Much Ill-Used Young Person.

It Was In This Way That The Matter Stood Between Them When Their Long

Journey Was Ended And They Reached London. He Was Miserable,

Desperate,  And Hopeless; The Girl Was Firm In That She Would Not

Marry Him,  And Her Mother,  Who Respected Both The Depth Of Corbin's

Feelings And Her Daughter's Reticence,  And Who Had Watched The

Struggle With A Troubled Heart,  Was Only Thankful That They Were To

Part,  And That It Was At An End. Corbin Had No Idea Where He Would Go

Nor What He Would Do. He Recognized That To Cross The Ocean With Them

Would Only Subject His Love To Fresh Distress And Humiliation,  And He

Had Determined To Put As Much Space Between Him And Miss Warriner As

The Surface Of The Globe Permitted. The Philippines Seemed To Offer A

Picturesque Retreat For A Broken Life. He Decided He Would Go There

And Enlist And Have Himself Shot. He Was Uncertain Whether He Would

Follow In The Steps Of His Revolutionary Ancestors And Join The Men

Who Were Struggling For Their Liberty And Independence,  Or His

Fellow-Americans; But That He Would Get Shot By One Side Or The Other

He Was Determined. And Then In Days To Come She Would Think,  Perhaps,

Of The Young Man On The Other Side Of The Globe,  Buried In The Wet

Rice-Fields,  With The Palms Fanning Him Through His Eternal Sleep,

And She Might Be Sorry Then That She Had Not Listened To His Troubled

Heart. The Picture Gave Him Some Small Comfort,  And That Night When

He Ordered Dinner For Them At The Savoy His Manner Showed The

Inspired Resolve Of One Who Is Soon To Mount The Scaffold Unafraid,

And With A Rose Between His Lips.

Edouard,  The First Violin,  Saw Miss Warriner When She Entered And

Took Her Place Facing Him At One Of The Tables In The Centre Of The

Room. He Was Sitting With His Violin On His Knees,  Touching The

Strings With His Finger-Tips. When He Saw Her He Choked The Neck Of

The Violin With His Hand,  As Though It Had Been The Hand Of A Friend

Which He Had Grasped In A Sudden Ecstasy Of Delight. The Effect Her

Appearance Had Made Upon Him Was So Remarkable That He Glanced

Quickly Over His Shoulder To See If He Had Betrayed Himself By Some

Sign Or Gesture. But The Other Musicians Were Concerned With Their

Own Gossip,  And He Felt Free To Turn Again And From Under His Half-

Closed Eyelids To Observe Her Covertly.

There Was Nothing To Explain Why Miss Warriner,  In Particular,  Should

Have So Disturbed Him; The English Women Seated About Her Were As

Fair; She Showed No Great Sorrow In Her Face; Her Beauty Was Not Of

The Type Which Carried Observers By Assault. And Yet Not One Of The

Many Beautiful Women Who On One Night Or Another Passed Before

Edouard In The Soft Light Of The Red Shades Had Ever Stirred Him So

Strangely,  Had Ever Depressed Him With Such A Tender Melancholy,  And

Filled His Soul--The Soul Of A Hungarian And A Musician--With Such

Loneliness And Unrest. He Knew That,  So Far As He Was Concerned,  She

Was As Distant As The Venus In The Louvre; She Was,  For Him,  A

Beautiful,  Unapproachable Statue,  Placed,  By Some Social Convention,

Upon A Pedestal.

As He Looked At Her He Felt Hotly The Degradation Of His Silly

Uniform,  Of The Striped Sash Around His Waist,  The Tawdry Braids,  And

The Tasselled Boots. He Felt As He Had Often Felt Before,  But Now

More Keenly Than Ever,  The Prostitution Of His Art In This Temple Of

The Senses,  This Home Of Epicures,  Where People Met To Feast Their

Eyes And Charm Their Palates. He Could Not Put His Feelings Into

Words,  And He Knew That If By Some Upheaval Of The Social World He

Should Be Thrown Into Her Presence He Would Still Be Bound,  He Would

Not Be Able To Speak Or Write What She Inspired In Him. But--And At

The Thought He Breathed Quickly,  And Raised His Shoulders With A

Touch Of Pride--He Could Tell Her In His Own Way; After His Own

Fashion He Could Express What He Felt Better Even Than Those Other

Men Could Tell What They Feel--These Men For Whose Amusement He

Performed Nightly,  To Whom It Was Granted To Sit At Her Side,  Who

Spoke The Language Of Her Class And Of Her Own People. Edouard Was

Not Given To Analyzing His Emotions; Like The Music Of His Tzigane

Ancestors,  They Came To Him Sweeping Every Chord In His Nature,

Beating Rapidly To The Time Of The Schardash,  Or With The Fitfulness

Of The Gypsy Folksongs Sinking His Spirits Into Melancholy. So He Did

Not Stop To Question Why This One Face So Suddenly Inspired Him; He

Only Knew That He Felt Grateful,  That He Was Impatient To Pay His

Tribute Of Admiration,  That He Was Glad He Was An Artist Who Could

Give His Feelings Voice.

In The Long Programme Of Selected Airs He Remembered That There Was

One Which Would Give Him This Chance To Speak,  In The Playing Of

Which He Could Put All His Skill And All His Soul,  An Air Which

Carried With It Infinite Sadness And The Touch Of A Caress. The Other

Numbers On The Programme Had Been Chosen To Please The Patrons Of A

Restaurant,  This One,  La Lettre D'amour,  Was Included In The List For

His Own Satisfaction. He Had Put It There To Please Himself; To-Night

He Would Play It To Please Her--To This Unknown Girl Who Had So

Suddenly Awakened And Inspired Him.

As He Waited For This Chance To Come He Watched Her,  Noting Her Every

Movement,  Her Troubled Smile,  Her Air Of Being Apart And Above Her

Surroundings. He Noticed,  Too,  The Set Face Of The Young Man At Her

Side And,  With The Discernment Of One Whose Own Interest Is Captive,

Saw The Half-Concealed Longing In His Eyes. He Felt A Quick Antipathy

To This Young Man. His Assured Position At The Girl's Side

Accentuated How Far He Himself Was Removed From Her; He Resented Also

The Manner Of The Young Man To The Waiters,  And He Wondered Hotly If,

In The Mind Of This Favored Youth,  The Musician Who Played For His

Entertainment Was Regarded Any More Highly Than The Servant Who

Received His Orders. To This Feeling Of Resentment Was Added One Of

Contempt. For,  As He Read The Tableau At The Table Below Him,  The

Young Man Was The Devotee Of The Young Girl At His Side,  And If One

Could Judge From Her Averted Eyes,  From Her Silent Assent To His

Questions,  From The Fact That She Withdrew From The Talk Between Him

And The Older Woman,  His Devotion Was Not Welcome.

This Reading Of The Pantomime Pleased Edouard Greatly. Nothing Could

Have So Crowned The Feeling Which The Beauty Of The Stranger Stirred

In Him As The Thought That Another Loved Her As Well As Himself,  And

That The Other,  Who Started With All Things In His Favor,  Met With

None From Her.

Edouard Assured Himself That This Was So Because He Had Often Heard

His People Boast That Men Not Of Their Country Could Not Feel As They

Could Feel. If He Had Ever Considered Them At All It Was As Cold And

Conscious Creatures Who Taught Themselves To Cover Up What They Felt,

So That When Their Emotions Strove To Assert Themselves They Were

Found,  Through Long Disuse,  To Be Dumb And Inarticulate. Edouard

Rejoiced That To The Men Of His Race It Was Given To Feel And Suffer

Much. He Was Sure That Beneath The Calmness Of Her Beauty This Woman

Before Him Could Feel Deeply; He Read In Her Eyes The Sympathy Of A

Great Soul; She Made Him Think Of A Madonna In The Church Of St.

Sophia At Budapest. He Saw In Her A Woman Who Could Love Greatly.

When He Considered How Impossible It Was For The Young Man At Her

Side Ever To Experience The Great Emotions Which Alone Could Reach

Her,  His Contempt For Him Rose Almost To Pity. His Violin,  With His

Power To Feel,  And With His Knowledge Of Technic Added,  Could Send

His Message As Far As Sound Could Carry. He Could Afford To Be

Generous,  And When He Rose To Play La Lettre D'amour It Was With The

Elation Of A Knight Entering The Lists,  With The Ardor Of A Lover

Singing Beneath His Lady's Window. La Lettre D'amour Is A Composition

Written To A Slow Measure,  And Filled With Chords Of Exquisite

Pathos. It Comes Hesitatingly,  Like The Confession Of A Lover Who

Loves So Deeply That He Halts To Find Words With Which To Express His

Feelings. It Moves In Broken Phrases,  Each Note Rising In Intensity

And Growing In Beauty. It Is Not A Burst Of Passionate Appeal,  But A

Plea,  Tender,  Beseeching,  And Throbbing With Melancholy. As He

Played,  Edouard Stepped Down From The Dais On Which The Musicians

Sat,  And Advanced Slowly Between The Tables. It Was Late,  And The

Majority Of Those Who Had Been Dining Had Departed To The Theatres.

Those Who Remained Were Lingering Over Their Coffee,  And Were

Smoking; Their Voices Were Lowered To A Polite Monotone; The Rush Of

The Waiters Had Ceased,  And The Previous Chatter Had Sunk To A

Subdued Murmur. Into This,  The Quivering Sigh Of Edouard's Violin

Penetrated Like A Sunbeam Feeling Its Way Into A Darkened Room,  And,

At The Sound,  The Voices,  One By One,  Detached Themselves From The

General Chorus,  Until,  Lacking Support,  It Ceased Altogether. Some

Were Silent,  That They Might Hear The Better,  Others,  Who Preferred

Their Own Talk,  Were Silent Out Of Regard For Those Who Desired To

Listen,  And A Waiter Who Was So Indiscreet As To Clatter A Tray Of

Glasses