[image]"They played like creatures in a trance..."As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing-room, I encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I said to him:"If Mr. Remsen asks for me, James, say that I have not returned."Then I stumbled up-stairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears.CHAPTER VI.CONSULTING A SPECIALIST.An angel is too fine a thingTo sit behind my chair and singAnd cheer my passing day.EDMUND E. GOSSE."But, madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of medicine--if such it can be called--convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action."I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently, she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence."We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this--ah--friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?""Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes."But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness--piano and violin, you know."An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita."You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general health remains good? He has no tendency towards melancholia; doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk?""I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered, wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the séance--if that is the word for it--was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question."Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by reputation?""Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together--Molatti and your friend."A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure."Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked, impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!"My dear madam," began the doctor, in his most pompous manner, "the case as you have stated it is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty to call the new science--new, that is, to the Western world. To the brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your--er--friend calls his 'seizure.' I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam? You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted."His voice had grown suddenly stern, and I avoided his gaze in confusion. The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me."It's my fault, Dr. Woodruff," cried Mrs. Jack, loyally; "I persuaded her to come. I have been over the jumps before, and I rather like the course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge."To my surprise, Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my equilibrium, and I hastened to explain."Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have laid before you--and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly, he begins to play Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear the future. Presently, he will begin to neglect his business and his---and--""And his wife," added the doctor, glancing at me, quizzically. Then he turned sharply toward Mrs. Jack. "Is this man fond of horses? Does he ride?""Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a marvel over timber," she answered, with enthusiasm. "I remember--" she began, reminiscently."Never mind ancient history," I cried, rather rudely. "I really can't see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his Chopin seizure.""As I understand it, madam," explained the physician, evidently hurt by my petulance, "as I understand it, you are desirous of turning your--ah--friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the diagnosis is completed, but, as I gather from your words, you wish to attempt a cure at once."I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion, not unmingled with contempt, from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely, it was absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption of his equestrian enthusiasm. Furthermore, what was I to gain by the line of treatment that this psychologicalposeurseemed to have in mind? Was it not just as well for my peace of mind to have Tom playing duets with Signorina Molatti as chasing an anise-seed bag across fields and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corlear or some other horsey woman?"Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Molatti?" I asked, bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's eccentricities that should not offend against probability."Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance," answered Dr. Woodruff, gravely, "it would seem to be much more likely that your friend had hypnotized Signorina Molatti. Do you not agree with me?"Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in the role of a Svengali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a dilemma."The fact is, madam," began Dr. Woodruff, very seriously, "the fact is that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While you have apparently made a clean breast of the whole affair, there are several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical ability for years, planning to make a sensational début when occasion served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter, and lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the problem. Practically, but two lines of conjecture remain open to us. Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and involves several very improbable hypotheses."The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had been listening to the words of a well-balanced, logical man who might tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward seeming or his mental methods to indicate it."How many hurdles on the other track?" asked Mrs. Jack, abruptly."Pardon me," said the physician, gently; "I didn't catch your meaning.""There were two lines of conjecture open to us," explained Mrs. Jack, "after we had agreed that--what shall I call him?--the man with Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr. Woodruff. What's the other?""Would you be shocked," asked the psychologist, suavely, "if I should suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of the spirit of the late Frederic François Chopin?""That's what Tom thinks!" I cried, excitedly, and then bit my tongue, regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me."I said that there were gaps in your narrative," he remarked, reproachfully. "Your friend--I take it that his name is Tom--believes, then, that he is under the control of Chopin?""I think he does," I answered, not very graciously; "he has spent much time of late reading the details of Chopin's life.""H'm!" exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom in a puzzling case; "would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this man, unobserved myself? If I could hear him play it would be throwing a flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark.""And--and--in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized," I faltered, "can you do anything for him? Can he be cured?""You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin. Naturally--"The look that I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue. But the fat was in the fire."Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff," I confessed, wearily. "We've been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his seizure. And--and--now----""And now his wife isn't one, two, three," cried Mrs. Jack, excitedly; "and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely you don't think it's chronic, do you?"The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the facts."If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play," I said, presently, "I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society to-morrow evening. He has asked us to go with him. Could you not obtain a card? He would not know, of course, why you were there.""I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters; it is easily arranged," remarked Dr. Woodruff, as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from his inner office. "Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you. Au revoir. To-morrow evening at eight."As we seated ourselves in the carriage, I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack. "Why did you betray me?" I cried. "It was cruel, cruel!"Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. "Don't be annoyed at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water jump with blinders. It's unfair to the horse, to say the least."CHAPTER VII.A PRELIMINARY CANTER.So comes, at last,The answer from the Vast.MAURICE THOMPSON."Do you really intend to go, Tom? But suppose, dear, you don't feel like playing; what will happen then? Do be sensible, old fellow, and stay home with me. You always shunned notoriety--and now you go in search of it. What is the matter with you, Tom? You haven't been at all frank with me since--since--""Since when, my dear?" asked my husband, smiling at me kindly over his demi-tasse."Since you played that duet with Signorina Molatti in the music-room," I answered, ashamed of the feeling of jealousy that I had nourished for several days. As I gazed at Tom's honest face the absurdity of the accusation that I had brought against him in this undirect way forced itself upon me. My husband at that moment struck me as the least flirtatious-looking man I had ever seen. But facts are stubborn things. I had good reason to believe that Tom had accompanied a famous violiniste, not only in our music-room but in the signorina's own drawing-room. It is astonishing how quickly a suspicious wife develops into a female Sherlock Holmes!"I plead guilty to the indictment," said Tom presently, lighting a cigar. "Suppose we go into the library, Winifred. We can have a quiet half-hour at least before we start."I derived both pleasure and pain from this suggestion. It was satisfactory to find Tom more inclined to be companionable than he had been for nearly a week. On the other hand, I was disappointed at discovering that his determination to attend the meeting of the Chopin Society remained unshaken. That any further protest from me would be futile, I fully realized, and it was with a feeling of apprehension and disquietude that I seated myself in the library, and watched Tom as he dreamily blew smoke into the air, seemingly forgetful of my presence. After a time, he began to speak, more like a poet soliloquizing than an unimaginative lawyer addressing his wife."It was a strangely vivid vision. I have had dreams that were like reality, but none that approached this one in intensity. I passed first through a doorway that led into old picturesque, crumbling cloisters, forming a quadrangle. Stretching away from these cloisters ran long corridors with vaulted roofs. Down one of the corridors, I hurried toward a light that seemed to come through a rose window, intensifying the grim darkness surrounding me. It was bitterly cold; the chill of death seemed to clutch at my heart. And always I heard the sound of mournful voices through the resounding galleries.""Tom!" I cried, shocked by the queer gleam in his eyes.But he went on as if he had not heard me. "There were other noises, some harsh, others majestically musical. There came to me the mighty roaring of a storm-swept sea beating against a rocky shore. The winds sobbed and thundered and whistled and fell away. Then I could hear the plaintive notes of sea-birds outside the stone walls of the monastery. But always it was the chill dampness that appalled me. I was forever hurrying toward the rose window, where warmth and love and joy awaited me; but always it fled before me, and the long black corridor lay between me and my goal. It was horrible.""What had you been doing, Tom?" I asked, in a desperate effort to recall him to his present environment. "Had you been eating a Welsh rabbit at the club?"He gazed at me, defiantly. "No," he said, gloomily, "I had been playing Chopin with Signorina Moletti."By an effort of will, I restrained the words that rushed to my lips, and asked, quietly: "And which of his works had you been playing?""I don't know," he answered, wearily. "I think the signorina said our last rendition was No. 1 of Opus 40, whatever that may mean."Tom glanced at me sheepishly, for all the world like a mischievous schoolboy who has been forced to make a confession. My mind was hard at work trying to recall the details of my recent researches into the life of Chopin. To refresh my memory, I opened a book that lay among other Lives of "the master" on the library-table."'No. 1 of Opus 40,'" I presently found myself reading aloud, "'is in A major, and is throughout an intensely martial composition. There is a spirit of victory and conquest about it. The most remarkable circumstances attached to it seems to lie in the fact that it is supposed to have been written during Chopin's sojourn at the Carthusian monastery on the island of Mallorca with George Sand.'"Bitterly did I regret my indiscreet quotation. Tom had turned white and there had come into his eyes an appealing, despairing expression that reminded me of a deer I had once seen brought to bay in the Adirondack forest."Mrs. Van Corlear," announced the butler at the door of the library, and Mrs. Jack, who had the run of the house, came toward us gaily."And how is our boy-wonder this evening?" she cried, laughingly. "I'm backing Tom Remsen for the great Chopin handicap to-night. Are you quite fit, Tom? Do I get a run for my money?"How easy it is for our most intimate friends to take our troubles lightly! Although I realized that underlying Mrs. Jack's levity was a kindly motive--a desire to carry off an awkward situation with the least possible friction--I could not help feeling annoyed at her flippant words. Grateful as I was to her for her loyal interest in my peculiar affliction, it was unpleasant to feel that Mrs. Jack was treating as a light comedy what seemed to me to involve all the elements of a tragedy. There was nothing farcical, surely, in Tom's appearance as he stood there, pale, silent, smiling perfunctorily at our guest, every inch a modern gentleman, but strangely like the tagonist of some classic drama, the rebellious but impotent plaything of vindictive gods."Come, let us go," I cried, nervously, anxious to put an end to a most uncomfortable situation. "Do you really feel up to it, Tom? There is still time to back out of it, you know. A solo before a crowd is much more trying than a duet in private."I had not intended to hurt Tom's feelings, but my words had displayed a plentiful lack of tact. And the worst of it was that Mrs. Jack seemed to be in a diabolical mood, for she at once jumped at the chance to make mischief."I have heard of your fondness for duets, Tom," she remarked, and I was reminded of the soft purring of a cat preparing to pounce on a helpless mouse. "What a delight it must be to Signorina Molatti to find an interpreter of Chopin worthy of her fiddle! You find her a very interesting personality, do you not?"Tom stopped short--we were slowly making our exit from the library--and gazed at Mrs. Jack with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "Signorina Molatti?" he queried, musingly. "What do I think of her? I really don't know. I never considered the question before. She's merely a part of the music--not an individual, don't you see?" Suddenly his face changed, and he put his hand to his brow as if a sharp pain had tormented him. "Wait a moment! Don't go!" he implored us, in a labored, unnatural voice. "What does it all mean? Tell me! What am I doing? I can't play Chopin! I can't play anything! Have I been hypnotized? I tell you, Winifred--Mrs. Jack--'tis all a mistake, a mystery, an uncanny, hideous bedevilment. It's demoniac possession--or something of that kind. And what'll the Chopin Society think if I make a horrible flunk? At this moment, I don't feel as if I could play a note. Come into the music-room!" he ended, a touch of wildness in his voice and manner.Mrs. Jack and I followed him, silently. There was in Tom's way of hurrying across the drawing-room a mingling of eagerness and dread that was wholly uncharacteristic of the man. As he hastened feverishly toward the piano, a hectic flush on his cheeks and his eyes aglow, he reminded me of a youth I had seen at Monte Carlo staking his whole fortune on a turn of the roulette wheel.For a time, Tom sat at the instrument, his head bowed low and his hands hanging listlessly at his side. Mrs. Jack's arm was round my waist, and I could hear her deep, hurried breathing and feel the nervous tremor of her slender, well-knit form. It was indeed a most trying crisis that could disturb the poise of the athletic woman beside me."He doesn't connect," she whispered to me, presently. "I wish Dr. Woodruff were here."But Mrs. Jack had spoken prematurely. Suddenly Tom's hands were raised and he struck the opening chords of Chopin's Scherzo in B minor, Opus 20. The fury of the following measures he rendered with stunning effect. Then the vigor of the rushing quaver figure lessened gradually, and, at the repeat, Tom sprang erect and turned toward us, an expression of weird ecstasy on his face."It's all right, girls!" he cried, with a boyish lack of dignity. "Come on! We're late, as it is. I'll show those Chopin people something they'll never forget! Come on!""He's fit!" whispered Mrs. Jack to me. "It wasn't much of a preliminary canter--but he's in the running fast enough!"CHAPTER VIII.THE CHOPIN SOCIETY.In this dark world where now I stay,I scarce can see myself;The radiant soul shines on my wayAs my fair guiding elf.VICTOR HUGO.Molatti was a marvel of beauty that evening. Great as was my prejudice against the girl, I was forced to admit to myself, as we entered the crowded rooms of the Chopin Society, that I had never seen a handsomer creature, nor one more radiant with the joy of life. The glory of youth, the fire of genius were in her eyes. There were many striking faces in evidence that evening, faces full of the subtle charm that the worship of music frequently begets; ugly faces alight with an inward glow, symmetrical faces whose regularity was not insipid; plebeian faces stamped by an acquired distinction; patrician faces warmed by an esthetic enthusiasm; faces that told their story of struggle and defeat, and others that bore the mysterious imprint of success. But there was only one countenance in all that picturesque throng to which my gaze constantly returned, paying unwilling homage to a fascination against which I vainly rebelled. I found it difficult to believe that Tom had never noticed the signorina's wonderful beauty of face and form, that he had always considered her, as he had said, "merely a part of the music."Mrs. Jack, who had been watching me closely, seemed to read my mind, for she whispered to me teasingly: "Tom'll sit up and take notice to-night, don't you think? She's well groomed and shows blood, doesn't she?"From Mrs. Jack Van Corlear this was high praise indeed, and Molatti deserved it. The studied simplicity of her low-cut black gown, relieved by a small cluster of diamonds below the neck, harmonized with the quiet arrangement of her luxuriant, dark hair, seemingly held in place by a miniature aigrette of small diamonds. The marmoreal whiteness of her perfect neck and firm, well-rounded arms was emphasized by a sharp contrast. Of color there was none, save for the slight flush of health in her cheeks and the rich, red line of her strong, sensitive mouth.I glanced at Tom, who stood not far from me, listening to the words of the president of the society, a short, slender, nervous-looking man, whose mobile countenance at that moment suggested the joy of a lion-hunter who has achieved unexpectedly a difficult feat. Tom was pale, and there was a wrinkle in his brow just between the eyes that assured me he was not completely at ease. But he seemed to be wholly indifferent to the presence of Signorina Molatti. That he had not glanced at her since our entrance to the hall I felt quite sure. Was Tom really a great actor? It was a question that was constantly recurring to me, despite the weight of evidence against an affirmative answer.Presently Tom returned to my side, and Mrs. Jack deliberately stuck a pin into him--or, rather, us."Is music antagonistic to manners, Tom Remsen? Go over and speak to Signorina Molatti. It is your duty, sir.""And my pleasure, Mrs. Jack," said Tom, with a smile that recalled his former self, my Tom of the ante-Chopin days. He left us at once to make his way through the crowd to Molatti's corner."I take it, madam, that that is your husband," remarked a deep, low, carefully modulated voice. I turned to find Dr. Emerson Woodruff beside me. "He doesn't look musical.""No, but he is," Mrs. Jack put in, hastily. "We've heard him play to-night, doctor. He's good for any distance--with something to spare. Mark my words, sir.""Have you reached any conclusion about the case, Dr. Woodruff?" I whispered, nervously. "Mrs. Van Corlear is right. He was in splendid form just before we left home. He seemed to be delighted at the prospect of astonishing these people. But he had had a curious outbreak. He had remarked, rather wildly, that he was not a musician, couldn't play a note, and was, he believed, suffering from 'demoniac possession.'"I saw that my statement had made a deep impression on the psychologist. His face was very grave as he watched Tom, who stood beside Molatti, evidently conversing with her with more vivacity than I had ever seen him display before."He's a phlegmatic, well-balanced man, in perfect health," muttered the doctor, musingly. "I am inclined to think," he went on, addressing me directly, "that your husband's case, madam, is the most remarkable that has ever come under my personal observation. I am very anxious to hear--and see--him play before saying anything further about it. You feel sure that he intends to perform to-night?"Before I could answer this question I found myself beset by the fussy little president of the society, who appeared to believe that he owed me a great debt of gratitude."I tried to thank Mr. Remsen for coming here--to our so great joy!--but he referred me to you, madam. Oh, how much I owe you! And it is so charming to find the wife of a man of genius wholly in sympathy with his career. It is not always thus, you know, Mrs. Remsen."I could feel the internal laughter that I knew Mrs. Jack was suppressing behind me. I longed to turn round and glare at her, but I was forced to smile down into the excited face of the Chopin enthusiast, who,ex officio, was my host for the evening."I trust you will not find Mr. Remsen a great disappointment," I managed to say, weakly. For an instant a hot, almost irresistible inclination stung me to tell this overwrought, undersized bundle of nerves the plain truth, to assure him that Tom Remsen, my husband, couldn't tell a nocturne from a negro lullaby, that he was as ignorant of music as I was of law."I am sure," commented the president, politely, "that no disappointment awaits us--rather a great and holy joy. But I regret that our pleasure must be deferred for a few moments. Won't you and your friends find seats, please? I have prepared--at the request of the society--a short paper on 'The Personality of Chopin.' It will take not more than ten minutes for me to read it. After that, Mrs. Remsen, we are to have a most wonderful duet from Signorina Molatti and Mr. Remsen."The little man disappeared, and I was glad to rest myself in the chair that Dr. Woodruff had found for me. I turned toward Mrs. Jack, who had seated herself beside me. She saw the gleam of annoyance in my eyes as they met hers, but smiled, sweetly."Why are you angry with me, my dear?" she whispered. "Am I responsible if nature granted me a sense of humor? You must acknowledge that the situation is amusing--even if it is a bit uncanny."Tom had seated himself beside Molatti to listen to the president's essay. Presently, I found myself hearkening, with almost feverish interest, to the latter."I have thought it well, my friends," the president was saying, "to confine my remarks this evening to Chopin in his great general relations to the world. I shall endeavor to draw a picture of the man rather than of the musician. And first of all, let me quote from Liszt in regard to the master's appearance."I glanced at Tom. He sat motionless, almost rigid, with a face so lacking in expression that it was hard to believe he had caught the significance of the speaker's words."'The ensemble of his person,'" quoted the president, "'was harmonious, and called for no special comment. His eye was more spiritual than dreamy; his bland smile never writhed into bitterness. The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye; his fair hair was soft and silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so distinguished and his manner stamped with so much of high breeding that involuntarily he was always treateden prince. He was generally gay; his caustic spirit caught the ridiculous rapidly, and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the eye. His gaiety was so much the more piquant because he always restrained it within the bounds of good taste, holding at a distance all that might tend to wound the most fastidious delicacy.'" To this quotation, the president added a few words from Orlowski: "'Chopin is full of health and vigor; all the Frenchwomen dote on him, and all the men are jealous of him. In a word, he is the fashion, and we shall no doubt shortly have glovesà la Chopin.'"The president paused, and I saw with consternation that he was glaring at my husband. The cause of this interruption was apparent at once as I shifted my gaze. Tom was rocking back and forth in his chair, shaking with laughter. His effort to keep his merriment in check, to restrain the loud guffaws that seemed to rack his very frame, was painfully in evidence. There was something almost heroic in his endeavor to repress an outbreak that would have been brutally rude. Tom had become the center of all eyes through the president's lack of tact."What's the matter with him?" whispered Mrs. Jack, hysterically."I don't know," I answered, lamely. "He's had a funny thought. Is he better?" I had turned away from him."He's growing worse, I think," answered Mrs. Jack, despondently. "Why doesn't the president go on? There, it's all right. He's quiet now."Mrs. Jack spoke truly. The president had resumed his lecture, and I turned and saw that Tom was no longer swaying with mirth."How did it happen?" I murmured in Mrs. Jack's ear."I'm not sure," she whispered, "but I think Molatti touched his hand. Oh, isn't it weird? I can't help feeling it's like breaking a colt."CHAPTER IX.AN UNRECORDED OPUS.Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,To shut and open heaven as he did.EMMA TATHAM.Whenever a number of men and women whose lives are devoted to some one line of art are gathered together the social atmosphere becomes surcharged with electricity. If one is impressionable, acutely sensitive to an environment, it is best, perhaps, to avoid the haunts of genius. I am inclined to believe that sociologists will investigate eventually the eternal antagonism between Belgravia and bohemia by strictly scientific methods. How large an infusion of genius can be safely sustained by a throng in search of social relaxation it would be well to know. One fact, at least, in this connection has been repeatedly demonstrated--as I had learned to my cost--namely, that a social function based on music rests on a powder mine. Belgravia had witnessed an explosion at my recent musical. And now, I felt convinced, bohemia was to undergo a like ordeal.Tom was at the root of this disquieting conviction. His hysterical attack of wholly irrelevant hilarity, his quick response to Molatti's soothing touch, and now the tense, unnatural expression of his face filled me with painful apprehension. I both craved and dreaded the end of the president's discourse, and my forebodings were darkened by a remark made by Mrs. Jack, who seemed to derive real pleasure from the excitement of the crisis."Look at Tom," she whispered. "He's fretful at the post. He'll get the bit in his teeth, presently. Do you see Dr. Woodruff over there? He's taking notes."Before she had ceased to speak Tom was out of hand and had bolted down the track, as Mrs. Jack would have put it. In other words, he had sprung from Molatti's side as the president ended his discourse and had rushed to the piano at the end of the room. I caught the look of amazement on the president's quaint face, and laughed aloud, nervously. Utterly ashamed of my lack of self-control, I glanced at the crowd surrounding me, but nobody had noticed my touch of hysteria. Every eye in the room was fastened on Tom, who was seated motionless at the piano in an apparently dazed condition. His eyes were closed and the corners of his mouth drawn down. He looked at that moment like the very incarnation of all that was unmusical in the universe. I feared that Mrs. Jack would comment on his ridiculous appearance, but she was kind enough to keep quiet. She told me afterward that my raucous laugh had frightened her.Suddenly Tom's chin went up, he opened his eyes, fixed them on Molatti's white face, and began to play. Such weird, intoxicating harmonies as filled the room, setting every soul therein athrob with an ecstasy that was close akin to agony, no earthly audience had ever heard before. Men and women were there who had memorized each and every note that Chopin wrote, but there was not among them one who could identify this marvelous improvisation, this strange exposition of a great master in his most inspired mood. It was Chopin, but Chopin unrecorded; his genius in its most characteristic tendency, but raised, as a mathematician would say, to thenth power. It was as if the soul of the composer, dissatisfied with the heritage that he had left to us, had returned to earth to exhibit to his worships the one perfect flower of his creative spirit.How long Tom played I have never known. I had forgotten all about him before many minutes had passed, losing in my impressionability to music my sensitiveness as the wife of a man misunderstood. There were in the universe only my soul and a throbbing splendor of great music, mighty harmonies that filled all space, magic chords that awakened dim memories of a life long past, filled to overflowing with joy and sorrow, tossing waves of melody that bore me to the stars or sank with me into vast, mysterious realms peopled by gray shadows that I had learned to love.Presently I felt Mrs. Jack's hand clasping mine. "Don't go to him, dear. He has only fainted," I heard her saying, her voice seeming to reach me from a remote distance. "He was all out, and collapsed under the wire. But it's nothing serious."Tom had sunk back into Molatti's arms, and his head rested against her shoulder. She had sprung toward him, as I learned later, just in time to save him from a fall. She now stood gazing mournfully down on his white, upturned face, sorrow, pity and, I imagined, remorse in her glance. For an instant a hot rage swept over me, and I strove to stand erect, despite Mrs. Jack's restraining hand."Don't make a scene!" she whispered to me, passionately in earnest. "He is in no danger. See, Dr. Woodruff is feeling his pulse."Even at that awful moment, when I knew not whether Tom was alive or dead. I remember that my mind dwelt for a moment on the tendency of new schools of medicine to cling to old traditions. Of what significance to a psychologist could the rapidity of Tom's pulse be? I heard people all around me talking excitedly."Did you ever hear anything like it?""I tell you, it's one of the master's posthumous works. I couldn't identify it, but perhaps it was discovered by Remsen.""That's absurd! Where could he find it?""He's better now. See, he opens his eyes.""I don't wonder he fainted; I was just on the verge of collapse myself.""Parblen! Chopin à la diable! Non, non, no morepour moi, s'il vous plait!""I can now die so vara happy! I hava justa once heard themaestrohimself. I hava nothing left for to live.""Who is this wonderful Remsen? Never heard of him before.""You'll hear of him again, then. He's the only man living who can interpret the master."It was, all of it, intolerable. How I hated these chattering idiots, who were making an idol of clay, setting up my poor Tom--who was to me at that moment an object of pity--as the incarnation of their cult, to whom they must pay reverent homage! I longed to cry aloud to them that they had been tricked, that my husband was a sensible, commonplace, lovable man, as far removed from a musical crank as he was from a train-robber or a pirate. All my former love for music seemed to have turned suddenly into detestation, and I longed to get away from this nest of Chopiniacs into the noisy, wholesome atmosphere of the outside world. It seemed to me that nothing could restore my equilibrium but the uproar of the streets and the unmelodious clatter of my coach."We must get out of this at once," I said to Mrs. Jack, standing erect and checking the dizziness in my head by an effort of will. I saw that Tom had fully recovered his senses and that he seemed to be actually enjoying the homage the excited throng pressing toward him offered to his vicarious genius. Beside him stood Molatti, her face radiant, as if her mission on earth were to reflect the glory of Tom Remsen's musical miracle."We must get out of this," I found myself saying again, as I urged Mrs. Jack toward the exit. "I'll send the carriage back for Tom.""But it's such bad form to run away like this," protested Mrs. Jack. "What will the president think of us? And Dr. Woodruff! Surely you want to ask him what he thinks of the--ah--case."But my will for the time being was stronger than hers, and presently we were seated in my carriage, homeward bound, and I was fighting back the hot tears that had rushed to my eyes."I--I--don't care what--what Dr. Woodruff thinks about the--the case," I sobbed. "I--I--know what I think about it."Mrs. Jack said nothing for a time, but it was pleasant to feel the pressure of her hand and to realize that she could be tactful now and again.We had nearly reached the house before she ventured to ask: "And what, my dear, do you think of the case?"I pulled myself together and restrained my sobs. I am not of the weeping variety of woman, and I was ashamed of my hysterical exhibition of weakness."I think," I began, and then I hesitated, weighing my words carefully--"I think that Signorina Molatti is in love with Tom."Mrs. Jack laughed outright, both to my amazement and anger. "You've wholly lost the scent, my dear," she remarked, while I removed my hand from hers. "Signorina Molatti is not in love with Tom--she's in love with Chopin."
[image]"They played like creatures in a trance..."
[image]
[image]
"They played like creatures in a trance..."
As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing-room, I encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I said to him:
"If Mr. Remsen asks for me, James, say that I have not returned."
Then I stumbled up-stairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears.
CHAPTER VI.
CONSULTING A SPECIALIST.
An angel is too fine a thingTo sit behind my chair and singAnd cheer my passing day.EDMUND E. GOSSE.
An angel is too fine a thingTo sit behind my chair and singAnd cheer my passing day.EDMUND E. GOSSE.
An angel is too fine a thing
To sit behind my chair and sing
And cheer my passing day.
EDMUND E. GOSSE.
EDMUND E. GOSSE.
"But, madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of medicine--if such it can be called--convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action."
I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently, she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence.
"We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this--ah--friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?"
"Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes.
"But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness--piano and violin, you know."
An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita.
"You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general health remains good? He has no tendency towards melancholia; doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk?"
"I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered, wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the séance--if that is the word for it--was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question.
"Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.
Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by reputation?"
"Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together--Molatti and your friend."
A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure.
"Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked, impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!
"My dear madam," began the doctor, in his most pompous manner, "the case as you have stated it is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty to call the new science--new, that is, to the Western world. To the brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your--er--friend calls his 'seizure.' I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam? You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted."
His voice had grown suddenly stern, and I avoided his gaze in confusion. The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me.
"It's my fault, Dr. Woodruff," cried Mrs. Jack, loyally; "I persuaded her to come. I have been over the jumps before, and I rather like the course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge."
To my surprise, Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my equilibrium, and I hastened to explain.
"Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have laid before you--and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly, he begins to play Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear the future. Presently, he will begin to neglect his business and his---and--"
"And his wife," added the doctor, glancing at me, quizzically. Then he turned sharply toward Mrs. Jack. "Is this man fond of horses? Does he ride?"
"Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a marvel over timber," she answered, with enthusiasm. "I remember--" she began, reminiscently.
"Never mind ancient history," I cried, rather rudely. "I really can't see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his Chopin seizure."
"As I understand it, madam," explained the physician, evidently hurt by my petulance, "as I understand it, you are desirous of turning your--ah--friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the diagnosis is completed, but, as I gather from your words, you wish to attempt a cure at once."
I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion, not unmingled with contempt, from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely, it was absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption of his equestrian enthusiasm. Furthermore, what was I to gain by the line of treatment that this psychologicalposeurseemed to have in mind? Was it not just as well for my peace of mind to have Tom playing duets with Signorina Molatti as chasing an anise-seed bag across fields and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corlear or some other horsey woman?
"Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Molatti?" I asked, bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's eccentricities that should not offend against probability.
"Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance," answered Dr. Woodruff, gravely, "it would seem to be much more likely that your friend had hypnotized Signorina Molatti. Do you not agree with me?"
Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in the role of a Svengali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a dilemma.
"The fact is, madam," began Dr. Woodruff, very seriously, "the fact is that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While you have apparently made a clean breast of the whole affair, there are several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical ability for years, planning to make a sensational début when occasion served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter, and lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the problem. Practically, but two lines of conjecture remain open to us. Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and involves several very improbable hypotheses."
The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had been listening to the words of a well-balanced, logical man who might tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward seeming or his mental methods to indicate it.
"How many hurdles on the other track?" asked Mrs. Jack, abruptly.
"Pardon me," said the physician, gently; "I didn't catch your meaning."
"There were two lines of conjecture open to us," explained Mrs. Jack, "after we had agreed that--what shall I call him?--the man with Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr. Woodruff. What's the other?"
"Would you be shocked," asked the psychologist, suavely, "if I should suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of the spirit of the late Frederic François Chopin?"
"That's what Tom thinks!" I cried, excitedly, and then bit my tongue, regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me.
"I said that there were gaps in your narrative," he remarked, reproachfully. "Your friend--I take it that his name is Tom--believes, then, that he is under the control of Chopin?"
"I think he does," I answered, not very graciously; "he has spent much time of late reading the details of Chopin's life."
"H'm!" exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom in a puzzling case; "would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this man, unobserved myself? If I could hear him play it would be throwing a flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark."
"And--and--in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized," I faltered, "can you do anything for him? Can he be cured?"
"You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin. Naturally--"
The look that I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue. But the fat was in the fire.
"Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff," I confessed, wearily. "We've been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his seizure. And--and--now----"
"And now his wife isn't one, two, three," cried Mrs. Jack, excitedly; "and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely you don't think it's chronic, do you?"
The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the facts.
"If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play," I said, presently, "I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society to-morrow evening. He has asked us to go with him. Could you not obtain a card? He would not know, of course, why you were there."
"I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters; it is easily arranged," remarked Dr. Woodruff, as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from his inner office. "Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you. Au revoir. To-morrow evening at eight."
As we seated ourselves in the carriage, I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack. "Why did you betray me?" I cried. "It was cruel, cruel!"
Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. "Don't be annoyed at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water jump with blinders. It's unfair to the horse, to say the least."
CHAPTER VII.
A PRELIMINARY CANTER.
So comes, at last,The answer from the Vast.MAURICE THOMPSON.
So comes, at last,The answer from the Vast.MAURICE THOMPSON.
So comes, at last,
The answer from the Vast.
MAURICE THOMPSON.
MAURICE THOMPSON.
"Do you really intend to go, Tom? But suppose, dear, you don't feel like playing; what will happen then? Do be sensible, old fellow, and stay home with me. You always shunned notoriety--and now you go in search of it. What is the matter with you, Tom? You haven't been at all frank with me since--since--"
"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband, smiling at me kindly over his demi-tasse.
"Since you played that duet with Signorina Molatti in the music-room," I answered, ashamed of the feeling of jealousy that I had nourished for several days. As I gazed at Tom's honest face the absurdity of the accusation that I had brought against him in this undirect way forced itself upon me. My husband at that moment struck me as the least flirtatious-looking man I had ever seen. But facts are stubborn things. I had good reason to believe that Tom had accompanied a famous violiniste, not only in our music-room but in the signorina's own drawing-room. It is astonishing how quickly a suspicious wife develops into a female Sherlock Holmes!
"I plead guilty to the indictment," said Tom presently, lighting a cigar. "Suppose we go into the library, Winifred. We can have a quiet half-hour at least before we start."
I derived both pleasure and pain from this suggestion. It was satisfactory to find Tom more inclined to be companionable than he had been for nearly a week. On the other hand, I was disappointed at discovering that his determination to attend the meeting of the Chopin Society remained unshaken. That any further protest from me would be futile, I fully realized, and it was with a feeling of apprehension and disquietude that I seated myself in the library, and watched Tom as he dreamily blew smoke into the air, seemingly forgetful of my presence. After a time, he began to speak, more like a poet soliloquizing than an unimaginative lawyer addressing his wife.
"It was a strangely vivid vision. I have had dreams that were like reality, but none that approached this one in intensity. I passed first through a doorway that led into old picturesque, crumbling cloisters, forming a quadrangle. Stretching away from these cloisters ran long corridors with vaulted roofs. Down one of the corridors, I hurried toward a light that seemed to come through a rose window, intensifying the grim darkness surrounding me. It was bitterly cold; the chill of death seemed to clutch at my heart. And always I heard the sound of mournful voices through the resounding galleries."
"Tom!" I cried, shocked by the queer gleam in his eyes.
But he went on as if he had not heard me. "There were other noises, some harsh, others majestically musical. There came to me the mighty roaring of a storm-swept sea beating against a rocky shore. The winds sobbed and thundered and whistled and fell away. Then I could hear the plaintive notes of sea-birds outside the stone walls of the monastery. But always it was the chill dampness that appalled me. I was forever hurrying toward the rose window, where warmth and love and joy awaited me; but always it fled before me, and the long black corridor lay between me and my goal. It was horrible."
"What had you been doing, Tom?" I asked, in a desperate effort to recall him to his present environment. "Had you been eating a Welsh rabbit at the club?"
He gazed at me, defiantly. "No," he said, gloomily, "I had been playing Chopin with Signorina Moletti."
By an effort of will, I restrained the words that rushed to my lips, and asked, quietly: "And which of his works had you been playing?"
"I don't know," he answered, wearily. "I think the signorina said our last rendition was No. 1 of Opus 40, whatever that may mean."
Tom glanced at me sheepishly, for all the world like a mischievous schoolboy who has been forced to make a confession. My mind was hard at work trying to recall the details of my recent researches into the life of Chopin. To refresh my memory, I opened a book that lay among other Lives of "the master" on the library-table.
"'No. 1 of Opus 40,'" I presently found myself reading aloud, "'is in A major, and is throughout an intensely martial composition. There is a spirit of victory and conquest about it. The most remarkable circumstances attached to it seems to lie in the fact that it is supposed to have been written during Chopin's sojourn at the Carthusian monastery on the island of Mallorca with George Sand.'"
Bitterly did I regret my indiscreet quotation. Tom had turned white and there had come into his eyes an appealing, despairing expression that reminded me of a deer I had once seen brought to bay in the Adirondack forest.
"Mrs. Van Corlear," announced the butler at the door of the library, and Mrs. Jack, who had the run of the house, came toward us gaily.
"And how is our boy-wonder this evening?" she cried, laughingly. "I'm backing Tom Remsen for the great Chopin handicap to-night. Are you quite fit, Tom? Do I get a run for my money?"
How easy it is for our most intimate friends to take our troubles lightly! Although I realized that underlying Mrs. Jack's levity was a kindly motive--a desire to carry off an awkward situation with the least possible friction--I could not help feeling annoyed at her flippant words. Grateful as I was to her for her loyal interest in my peculiar affliction, it was unpleasant to feel that Mrs. Jack was treating as a light comedy what seemed to me to involve all the elements of a tragedy. There was nothing farcical, surely, in Tom's appearance as he stood there, pale, silent, smiling perfunctorily at our guest, every inch a modern gentleman, but strangely like the tagonist of some classic drama, the rebellious but impotent plaything of vindictive gods.
"Come, let us go," I cried, nervously, anxious to put an end to a most uncomfortable situation. "Do you really feel up to it, Tom? There is still time to back out of it, you know. A solo before a crowd is much more trying than a duet in private."
I had not intended to hurt Tom's feelings, but my words had displayed a plentiful lack of tact. And the worst of it was that Mrs. Jack seemed to be in a diabolical mood, for she at once jumped at the chance to make mischief.
"I have heard of your fondness for duets, Tom," she remarked, and I was reminded of the soft purring of a cat preparing to pounce on a helpless mouse. "What a delight it must be to Signorina Molatti to find an interpreter of Chopin worthy of her fiddle! You find her a very interesting personality, do you not?"
Tom stopped short--we were slowly making our exit from the library--and gazed at Mrs. Jack with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "Signorina Molatti?" he queried, musingly. "What do I think of her? I really don't know. I never considered the question before. She's merely a part of the music--not an individual, don't you see?" Suddenly his face changed, and he put his hand to his brow as if a sharp pain had tormented him. "Wait a moment! Don't go!" he implored us, in a labored, unnatural voice. "What does it all mean? Tell me! What am I doing? I can't play Chopin! I can't play anything! Have I been hypnotized? I tell you, Winifred--Mrs. Jack--'tis all a mistake, a mystery, an uncanny, hideous bedevilment. It's demoniac possession--or something of that kind. And what'll the Chopin Society think if I make a horrible flunk? At this moment, I don't feel as if I could play a note. Come into the music-room!" he ended, a touch of wildness in his voice and manner.
Mrs. Jack and I followed him, silently. There was in Tom's way of hurrying across the drawing-room a mingling of eagerness and dread that was wholly uncharacteristic of the man. As he hastened feverishly toward the piano, a hectic flush on his cheeks and his eyes aglow, he reminded me of a youth I had seen at Monte Carlo staking his whole fortune on a turn of the roulette wheel.
For a time, Tom sat at the instrument, his head bowed low and his hands hanging listlessly at his side. Mrs. Jack's arm was round my waist, and I could hear her deep, hurried breathing and feel the nervous tremor of her slender, well-knit form. It was indeed a most trying crisis that could disturb the poise of the athletic woman beside me.
"He doesn't connect," she whispered to me, presently. "I wish Dr. Woodruff were here."
But Mrs. Jack had spoken prematurely. Suddenly Tom's hands were raised and he struck the opening chords of Chopin's Scherzo in B minor, Opus 20. The fury of the following measures he rendered with stunning effect. Then the vigor of the rushing quaver figure lessened gradually, and, at the repeat, Tom sprang erect and turned toward us, an expression of weird ecstasy on his face.
"It's all right, girls!" he cried, with a boyish lack of dignity. "Come on! We're late, as it is. I'll show those Chopin people something they'll never forget! Come on!"
"He's fit!" whispered Mrs. Jack to me. "It wasn't much of a preliminary canter--but he's in the running fast enough!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CHOPIN SOCIETY.
In this dark world where now I stay,I scarce can see myself;The radiant soul shines on my wayAs my fair guiding elf.VICTOR HUGO.
In this dark world where now I stay,I scarce can see myself;The radiant soul shines on my wayAs my fair guiding elf.VICTOR HUGO.
In this dark world where now I stay,
I scarce can see myself;
I scarce can see myself;
The radiant soul shines on my way
As my fair guiding elf.VICTOR HUGO.
As my fair guiding elf.
VICTOR HUGO.
VICTOR HUGO.
Molatti was a marvel of beauty that evening. Great as was my prejudice against the girl, I was forced to admit to myself, as we entered the crowded rooms of the Chopin Society, that I had never seen a handsomer creature, nor one more radiant with the joy of life. The glory of youth, the fire of genius were in her eyes. There were many striking faces in evidence that evening, faces full of the subtle charm that the worship of music frequently begets; ugly faces alight with an inward glow, symmetrical faces whose regularity was not insipid; plebeian faces stamped by an acquired distinction; patrician faces warmed by an esthetic enthusiasm; faces that told their story of struggle and defeat, and others that bore the mysterious imprint of success. But there was only one countenance in all that picturesque throng to which my gaze constantly returned, paying unwilling homage to a fascination against which I vainly rebelled. I found it difficult to believe that Tom had never noticed the signorina's wonderful beauty of face and form, that he had always considered her, as he had said, "merely a part of the music."
Mrs. Jack, who had been watching me closely, seemed to read my mind, for she whispered to me teasingly: "Tom'll sit up and take notice to-night, don't you think? She's well groomed and shows blood, doesn't she?"
From Mrs. Jack Van Corlear this was high praise indeed, and Molatti deserved it. The studied simplicity of her low-cut black gown, relieved by a small cluster of diamonds below the neck, harmonized with the quiet arrangement of her luxuriant, dark hair, seemingly held in place by a miniature aigrette of small diamonds. The marmoreal whiteness of her perfect neck and firm, well-rounded arms was emphasized by a sharp contrast. Of color there was none, save for the slight flush of health in her cheeks and the rich, red line of her strong, sensitive mouth.
I glanced at Tom, who stood not far from me, listening to the words of the president of the society, a short, slender, nervous-looking man, whose mobile countenance at that moment suggested the joy of a lion-hunter who has achieved unexpectedly a difficult feat. Tom was pale, and there was a wrinkle in his brow just between the eyes that assured me he was not completely at ease. But he seemed to be wholly indifferent to the presence of Signorina Molatti. That he had not glanced at her since our entrance to the hall I felt quite sure. Was Tom really a great actor? It was a question that was constantly recurring to me, despite the weight of evidence against an affirmative answer.
Presently Tom returned to my side, and Mrs. Jack deliberately stuck a pin into him--or, rather, us.
"Is music antagonistic to manners, Tom Remsen? Go over and speak to Signorina Molatti. It is your duty, sir."
"And my pleasure, Mrs. Jack," said Tom, with a smile that recalled his former self, my Tom of the ante-Chopin days. He left us at once to make his way through the crowd to Molatti's corner.
"I take it, madam, that that is your husband," remarked a deep, low, carefully modulated voice. I turned to find Dr. Emerson Woodruff beside me. "He doesn't look musical."
"No, but he is," Mrs. Jack put in, hastily. "We've heard him play to-night, doctor. He's good for any distance--with something to spare. Mark my words, sir."
"Have you reached any conclusion about the case, Dr. Woodruff?" I whispered, nervously. "Mrs. Van Corlear is right. He was in splendid form just before we left home. He seemed to be delighted at the prospect of astonishing these people. But he had had a curious outbreak. He had remarked, rather wildly, that he was not a musician, couldn't play a note, and was, he believed, suffering from 'demoniac possession.'"
I saw that my statement had made a deep impression on the psychologist. His face was very grave as he watched Tom, who stood beside Molatti, evidently conversing with her with more vivacity than I had ever seen him display before.
"He's a phlegmatic, well-balanced man, in perfect health," muttered the doctor, musingly. "I am inclined to think," he went on, addressing me directly, "that your husband's case, madam, is the most remarkable that has ever come under my personal observation. I am very anxious to hear--and see--him play before saying anything further about it. You feel sure that he intends to perform to-night?"
Before I could answer this question I found myself beset by the fussy little president of the society, who appeared to believe that he owed me a great debt of gratitude.
"I tried to thank Mr. Remsen for coming here--to our so great joy!--but he referred me to you, madam. Oh, how much I owe you! And it is so charming to find the wife of a man of genius wholly in sympathy with his career. It is not always thus, you know, Mrs. Remsen."
I could feel the internal laughter that I knew Mrs. Jack was suppressing behind me. I longed to turn round and glare at her, but I was forced to smile down into the excited face of the Chopin enthusiast, who,ex officio, was my host for the evening.
"I trust you will not find Mr. Remsen a great disappointment," I managed to say, weakly. For an instant a hot, almost irresistible inclination stung me to tell this overwrought, undersized bundle of nerves the plain truth, to assure him that Tom Remsen, my husband, couldn't tell a nocturne from a negro lullaby, that he was as ignorant of music as I was of law.
"I am sure," commented the president, politely, "that no disappointment awaits us--rather a great and holy joy. But I regret that our pleasure must be deferred for a few moments. Won't you and your friends find seats, please? I have prepared--at the request of the society--a short paper on 'The Personality of Chopin.' It will take not more than ten minutes for me to read it. After that, Mrs. Remsen, we are to have a most wonderful duet from Signorina Molatti and Mr. Remsen."
The little man disappeared, and I was glad to rest myself in the chair that Dr. Woodruff had found for me. I turned toward Mrs. Jack, who had seated herself beside me. She saw the gleam of annoyance in my eyes as they met hers, but smiled, sweetly.
"Why are you angry with me, my dear?" she whispered. "Am I responsible if nature granted me a sense of humor? You must acknowledge that the situation is amusing--even if it is a bit uncanny."
Tom had seated himself beside Molatti to listen to the president's essay. Presently, I found myself hearkening, with almost feverish interest, to the latter.
"I have thought it well, my friends," the president was saying, "to confine my remarks this evening to Chopin in his great general relations to the world. I shall endeavor to draw a picture of the man rather than of the musician. And first of all, let me quote from Liszt in regard to the master's appearance."
I glanced at Tom. He sat motionless, almost rigid, with a face so lacking in expression that it was hard to believe he had caught the significance of the speaker's words.
"'The ensemble of his person,'" quoted the president, "'was harmonious, and called for no special comment. His eye was more spiritual than dreamy; his bland smile never writhed into bitterness. The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye; his fair hair was soft and silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so distinguished and his manner stamped with so much of high breeding that involuntarily he was always treateden prince. He was generally gay; his caustic spirit caught the ridiculous rapidly, and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the eye. His gaiety was so much the more piquant because he always restrained it within the bounds of good taste, holding at a distance all that might tend to wound the most fastidious delicacy.'" To this quotation, the president added a few words from Orlowski: "'Chopin is full of health and vigor; all the Frenchwomen dote on him, and all the men are jealous of him. In a word, he is the fashion, and we shall no doubt shortly have glovesà la Chopin.'"
The president paused, and I saw with consternation that he was glaring at my husband. The cause of this interruption was apparent at once as I shifted my gaze. Tom was rocking back and forth in his chair, shaking with laughter. His effort to keep his merriment in check, to restrain the loud guffaws that seemed to rack his very frame, was painfully in evidence. There was something almost heroic in his endeavor to repress an outbreak that would have been brutally rude. Tom had become the center of all eyes through the president's lack of tact.
"What's the matter with him?" whispered Mrs. Jack, hysterically.
"I don't know," I answered, lamely. "He's had a funny thought. Is he better?" I had turned away from him.
"He's growing worse, I think," answered Mrs. Jack, despondently. "Why doesn't the president go on? There, it's all right. He's quiet now."
Mrs. Jack spoke truly. The president had resumed his lecture, and I turned and saw that Tom was no longer swaying with mirth.
"How did it happen?" I murmured in Mrs. Jack's ear.
"I'm not sure," she whispered, "but I think Molatti touched his hand. Oh, isn't it weird? I can't help feeling it's like breaking a colt."
CHAPTER IX.
AN UNRECORDED OPUS.
Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,To shut and open heaven as he did.EMMA TATHAM.
Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,To shut and open heaven as he did.EMMA TATHAM.
Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,
To shut and open heaven as he did.
EMMA TATHAM.
EMMA TATHAM.
Whenever a number of men and women whose lives are devoted to some one line of art are gathered together the social atmosphere becomes surcharged with electricity. If one is impressionable, acutely sensitive to an environment, it is best, perhaps, to avoid the haunts of genius. I am inclined to believe that sociologists will investigate eventually the eternal antagonism between Belgravia and bohemia by strictly scientific methods. How large an infusion of genius can be safely sustained by a throng in search of social relaxation it would be well to know. One fact, at least, in this connection has been repeatedly demonstrated--as I had learned to my cost--namely, that a social function based on music rests on a powder mine. Belgravia had witnessed an explosion at my recent musical. And now, I felt convinced, bohemia was to undergo a like ordeal.
Tom was at the root of this disquieting conviction. His hysterical attack of wholly irrelevant hilarity, his quick response to Molatti's soothing touch, and now the tense, unnatural expression of his face filled me with painful apprehension. I both craved and dreaded the end of the president's discourse, and my forebodings were darkened by a remark made by Mrs. Jack, who seemed to derive real pleasure from the excitement of the crisis.
"Look at Tom," she whispered. "He's fretful at the post. He'll get the bit in his teeth, presently. Do you see Dr. Woodruff over there? He's taking notes."
Before she had ceased to speak Tom was out of hand and had bolted down the track, as Mrs. Jack would have put it. In other words, he had sprung from Molatti's side as the president ended his discourse and had rushed to the piano at the end of the room. I caught the look of amazement on the president's quaint face, and laughed aloud, nervously. Utterly ashamed of my lack of self-control, I glanced at the crowd surrounding me, but nobody had noticed my touch of hysteria. Every eye in the room was fastened on Tom, who was seated motionless at the piano in an apparently dazed condition. His eyes were closed and the corners of his mouth drawn down. He looked at that moment like the very incarnation of all that was unmusical in the universe. I feared that Mrs. Jack would comment on his ridiculous appearance, but she was kind enough to keep quiet. She told me afterward that my raucous laugh had frightened her.
Suddenly Tom's chin went up, he opened his eyes, fixed them on Molatti's white face, and began to play. Such weird, intoxicating harmonies as filled the room, setting every soul therein athrob with an ecstasy that was close akin to agony, no earthly audience had ever heard before. Men and women were there who had memorized each and every note that Chopin wrote, but there was not among them one who could identify this marvelous improvisation, this strange exposition of a great master in his most inspired mood. It was Chopin, but Chopin unrecorded; his genius in its most characteristic tendency, but raised, as a mathematician would say, to thenth power. It was as if the soul of the composer, dissatisfied with the heritage that he had left to us, had returned to earth to exhibit to his worships the one perfect flower of his creative spirit.
How long Tom played I have never known. I had forgotten all about him before many minutes had passed, losing in my impressionability to music my sensitiveness as the wife of a man misunderstood. There were in the universe only my soul and a throbbing splendor of great music, mighty harmonies that filled all space, magic chords that awakened dim memories of a life long past, filled to overflowing with joy and sorrow, tossing waves of melody that bore me to the stars or sank with me into vast, mysterious realms peopled by gray shadows that I had learned to love.
Presently I felt Mrs. Jack's hand clasping mine. "Don't go to him, dear. He has only fainted," I heard her saying, her voice seeming to reach me from a remote distance. "He was all out, and collapsed under the wire. But it's nothing serious."
Tom had sunk back into Molatti's arms, and his head rested against her shoulder. She had sprung toward him, as I learned later, just in time to save him from a fall. She now stood gazing mournfully down on his white, upturned face, sorrow, pity and, I imagined, remorse in her glance. For an instant a hot rage swept over me, and I strove to stand erect, despite Mrs. Jack's restraining hand.
"Don't make a scene!" she whispered to me, passionately in earnest. "He is in no danger. See, Dr. Woodruff is feeling his pulse."
Even at that awful moment, when I knew not whether Tom was alive or dead. I remember that my mind dwelt for a moment on the tendency of new schools of medicine to cling to old traditions. Of what significance to a psychologist could the rapidity of Tom's pulse be? I heard people all around me talking excitedly.
"Did you ever hear anything like it?"
"I tell you, it's one of the master's posthumous works. I couldn't identify it, but perhaps it was discovered by Remsen."
"That's absurd! Where could he find it?"
"He's better now. See, he opens his eyes."
"I don't wonder he fainted; I was just on the verge of collapse myself."
"Parblen! Chopin à la diable! Non, non, no morepour moi, s'il vous plait!"
"I can now die so vara happy! I hava justa once heard themaestrohimself. I hava nothing left for to live."
"Who is this wonderful Remsen? Never heard of him before."
"You'll hear of him again, then. He's the only man living who can interpret the master."
It was, all of it, intolerable. How I hated these chattering idiots, who were making an idol of clay, setting up my poor Tom--who was to me at that moment an object of pity--as the incarnation of their cult, to whom they must pay reverent homage! I longed to cry aloud to them that they had been tricked, that my husband was a sensible, commonplace, lovable man, as far removed from a musical crank as he was from a train-robber or a pirate. All my former love for music seemed to have turned suddenly into detestation, and I longed to get away from this nest of Chopiniacs into the noisy, wholesome atmosphere of the outside world. It seemed to me that nothing could restore my equilibrium but the uproar of the streets and the unmelodious clatter of my coach.
"We must get out of this at once," I said to Mrs. Jack, standing erect and checking the dizziness in my head by an effort of will. I saw that Tom had fully recovered his senses and that he seemed to be actually enjoying the homage the excited throng pressing toward him offered to his vicarious genius. Beside him stood Molatti, her face radiant, as if her mission on earth were to reflect the glory of Tom Remsen's musical miracle.
"We must get out of this," I found myself saying again, as I urged Mrs. Jack toward the exit. "I'll send the carriage back for Tom."
"But it's such bad form to run away like this," protested Mrs. Jack. "What will the president think of us? And Dr. Woodruff! Surely you want to ask him what he thinks of the--ah--case."
But my will for the time being was stronger than hers, and presently we were seated in my carriage, homeward bound, and I was fighting back the hot tears that had rushed to my eyes.
"I--I--don't care what--what Dr. Woodruff thinks about the--the case," I sobbed. "I--I--know what I think about it."
Mrs. Jack said nothing for a time, but it was pleasant to feel the pressure of her hand and to realize that she could be tactful now and again.
We had nearly reached the house before she ventured to ask: "And what, my dear, do you think of the case?"
I pulled myself together and restrained my sobs. I am not of the weeping variety of woman, and I was ashamed of my hysterical exhibition of weakness.
"I think," I began, and then I hesitated, weighing my words carefully--"I think that Signorina Molatti is in love with Tom."
Mrs. Jack laughed outright, both to my amazement and anger. "You've wholly lost the scent, my dear," she remarked, while I removed my hand from hers. "Signorina Molatti is not in love with Tom--she's in love with Chopin."