Told in a French Garden by Mildred Aldrich (howl and other poems txt) 📕

eyes, down, down into her deep beautiful soul, and my soul reached out toward her, with a sudden knowledge of what manhood might have been had all womanhood been pure; of what life might have been with one who could know no sin.

"It was only her face that I saw, as I stood waiting the end of the applause. I seemed to be gazing between her glorious eyes, as to tell the truth, I had more than once gazed in my dreams in the past month. I had already written the song that seeing her face had sung in my heart. It was with an irresistible longing, an impulse stronger than my will, to say to her just what her face had said to me, though she might never know it was said to her that I went back to the stage. Almost before I realized it, I was there. I felt the vibrant soul of my violin as I laid my cheek against it, and I saw the same spirit tremble behind the eyes of the fair face above me, as one sees a reflection tremble under the wind rippled water. The first chord throbbed on the air in response to it. Then I played what she had unconsciously inspired in me. It was in her eyes, where never swerving, immortal loyalty shone, that I read the deathless theme. Out of her nature came the inspiration. To her belongs the honor. I know no one better, that as I played last night, I shall never play again; just as I realize that _what_ I played last night my own nature could never of itself have created. It was she who spoke, it was not I. Let him who dares, try to explain that miracle."

She rose from her chair and moved toward him, and as she moved, she swayed pitifully.

He did not stir.

It was I who caught her as she stumbled, and I held her close in my arms. After a moment, she relaxed a little, and her head drooped wearily on my shoulder. He lowered his lids, and I felt that every nerve in his well controlled body quivered with resentment.

He motioned to entreat her to sit down again. She shook her head, and, when he went on, again, he for the first time addressed himself directly to her. "It was chance that set you across my path last night you and your father. I recognized him at once. I knew your mother well. I can remember the day on which you were born, I was a lad then. Your mother was one of my idols. Why, child, I fiddled for you in your cradle. At the moment I realized who you were, you were so much a part of my music that you only appealed to me through that. But when I left you, I carried a consciousness of you with me that was more tangible. I had held your hand in mine. I feel it there still.

"I went directly to my room, alone. I sat down immediately to transcribe as much of what I had played as possible while it was fresh in my mind. As I wrote I was alone with you. But as the spirit of the music was imprisoned, I knew that you were becoming more and more a material presence to me. When I slept, it was to dream of you again but, oh, the difference!

"I should have been grateful to you for the inspiration that you had been to me and I was! But it had served its purpose. They tell me I never played like that before. I feel I never shall again. But the end of an emotion is never in the spirit with me.

"I started out this afternoon to find you, oblivious of the fact that I should have left town. I had the audacity to tell myself that I should be a cad if I departed without thanking the sweet daughter of your mother for her share in making me great. I had the presumption to believe in myself. It seemed natural enough to your good father that 'a whimsical genius,' as he called me, should be allowed the caprice of even tardily looking up his boyhood's acquaintance. He received me nobly, was proud that you should see I remembered him and simply made no secret of it.

"Though I knew what you had seemed to me, I little realized that the child of true, fine musical spirits had a nature strung like my Strad fine, clear, true, matchless, as well as inspiring. I spent a beautiful afternoon with you. I cannot better explain than by saying that to me it was like such a day as I have sometimes had with my violin. I call them my holy days, and God knows I try to keep them holy, though after too many of them follow a St. Michael and the Dragon tussle and I mean no discredit to the Archangel, either.

"The honest old father, proud to trust his daughter to me, in his kind heart he always considered me a most maligned man, went off to the play and his Saturday night club. He told me that.

"We were alone together. It was then that I began to think that I could probably play on her nature as I did on my violin, and then, with a player's frenzy, to realize that I had been doing it from the first; that we had vibrated in harmony like two ends of a chord. Then I saw no more the spirit behind her eyes. I saw only the beautiful face in which the color came and went, the burnished hair so full of golden lights, on which I longed to lay my hand the sensitive red lips and the angel and the demon rose up within me, and looked one another in the face, and I heard the one fling the truth at the other, which even the devil no longer cared to deny Ah, forgive me! "

In his egoism of self analysis and open confession, I am sure he did not realize how far he was going, until she buried her face in her hands.

Then he stepped across the room and stood before me as she rested her face in her hands against my breast.

"It was not especially clever the last struggle against myself. I had never known such a woman before. I suppose if I had, I should have tortured her to death to strike new chords out of her nature, and wept at my work! I had not the courage to tear myself abruptly away. I suggested an hour of the opera I gave her the public as a protector and they sang 'Faust.' It was then that, knowing myself so well, I looked out into the auditorium and saw you! It was Providence that put you in my way. I thought it was accident. I am sure I need say no more?"

I shook my head.

He leaned over her a moment. He gently took her hands from her face. Her eyelids trembled. For one brief moment she opened her eyes to his.

"You have given me one sweet day," he murmured. "Some part of your soul has called its music out of mine. That offspring of a miraculous sympathy will live immortal when all else of our two lives is forgotten. Remember to day as a dream and me as a shadow there " he stopped abruptly. I felt her head fall forward. She had swooned.

Together we looked into the beautiful colorless face.

I loved music as I loved light. I was an artist myself. A great musician and this man was one was to me the greatest achievement of Art and Living.

I did not refuse the hand he held out. I buried mine in it.

I did not smile nor mistrust, nor misunderstand the tears in his eyes, nor despise him because I knew they would soon enough be dry. I did not doubt his sincerity when he said, "I have never done so bitter a thing as say 'good bye' to this though I know but too well such are not for me."

He bent over her, as if he would take her in his arms.

She was unconscious. I felt tempted to put her there. I knew I loved her as he could never love yet I pitied him the more for that.

"Tell her," he whispered, "tell her, when she shall have forgotten this as I hope she will that for this hour at least I loved her; that losing her I am liable to love her long, so we shall never meet again. I shall never cease to be grateful to the Providence that threw you in my way after to night. To night I could curse it and my conscience with a right good will." With an effort he straightened himself. "You can afford to forgive me," he said, "for I I envy you with all my heart." And he was gone.

I heard his voice as he spoke to the waiter outside. I listened to his step as he descended the stairs. He had passed out of our life forever.

That was years ago.

She has long been dead.

He was not to blame if the sunshine that danced in music out of the eyes of the woman I loved never quite came back again. We were, all the same, happy together in our way.

He was not to blame if it was written in the big book of Fate that it should be his heart, and not mine, that should read the song she bore in her soul.

Something must be sacrificed for Art. We sacrificed our first illusions and the Song he read will sing on when even Rodriguez is but a tradition.


X

EPILOGUE

ADIEU

HOW WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN


The last word had hardly been uttered when the Youngster, who had been fidgeting, leaped to his feet.

"Hark!" he cried.

We all listened.

"Cannon," he yelled, and rushed out to the big gate, which he tore open, and dashed into the road.

There was no doubt of it. Off to the north we could all hear the dull far off booming of artillery.

We followed into the garden.

The Youngster was in the middle of the road. As we joined him he bent toward the ground, as if, Indian like, he could hear better. "Hush," he said in a whisper, as we all began to talk. "Hush! I hear horses."

There was a dead silence, and in it, we could hear the pounding of horses' hoofs in the valley.

"Better come in out of the rain," said the Doctor, and we obeyed. Once inside the gate the Doctor said, "Well, I reckon it is to morrow at the latest for us. The truth of the matter is: I kept something from you this evening. The village was drummed out last night. As this road is being kept clear, no one passed here, and as we were ready to start at a moment's notice, I made up my mind to have one more evening. However, we've time enough. They can't advance to night. Too wet. No moon. Come on into the house."

He closed and locked the big gate, but before we reached the house, there was a rush