Chapter XVIIIThe Concert
PHILIP’S manager had consented, although rather reluctantly, that the boy should play a night or two before the concert at the house of Lord Ashden’s friend, the duchess, who had shown him so much kindness upon his arrival in London. She had gathered together three or four score of her particular friends, who belonged to the most critical musical set in London, and when Lord Ashden looked around the room and began to discern the character of the audience, he glanced rather anxiously at Philip.
Never before had he been so impressed with the boy’s extreme youth,and with his entire simplicity and unconsciousness, as he came modestly forward with his pretty air of being genuinely pleased by the sound of clapping hands which greeted him; and as he flashed upon the company one of his sunny smiles the women murmured, “What a little love!” and the men, many of them hardened concert-goers, drew up their chairs, prepared to listen with some curiosity to this fragile morsel of humanity, of whose wonderful playing they had heard such great things from their hostess.
“He hardly looks as though he had strength enough to handle the bow through such a difficult selection as he has chosen to begin his programme with,” said a stout violincellist; “but we shall see.”
Philip played his best, and as usual, after the first bar or two, he forgot all about himself and his audience,and thought only of the music before him. The second selection he played without notes, and with a sympathy and abandon which astonished his hearers; and the final number of the programme finished, as he lowered his bow and stood for a moment in the centre of the room, there was a hush of astonishment and pleasure. Then the applause began, lasting for full five minutes, while the people gathered around Philip, shaking hands and kissing him, the older musicians among the first to pay their willing tribute to his genius.
“He is wonderful—marvellous!” Lord Ashden heard them saying on all sides. “What a career he has ahead of him!” And in the midst of it all he felt a warm little hand slipped into his, and Philip’s voice whispered:
“Come, dear Lord Ashden, let us go home.”
“Didn’t you like all that petting, my dear boy?” Lord Ashden asked in an amused voice as they rolled away from the musicale in the duchess’ own carriage, which she had insisted upon sending for them.
“I don’t know,” said Philip thoughtfully. “I am glad they like my music of course, but somehow—a word or two from you, or one of dear Signor Marini’s funny little grunts of approval, seems to make me ten times happier. I wish”—he paused a moment and his eyes shone in the darkness of the carriage—“I wish I could thank you. I pray each night that God will reward you for all that you have done for me.”
“He has rewarded me,” exclaimed Lord Ashden, “by sending you to be the comfort and joy of my life.”
The night of the concert came at last, and Philip was by all odds the calmestand least excited of the party. Lord Ashden had some misgivings as to the result of this first public appearance in England, for in spite of the boy’s undoubted success at La Scala he knew that the audience of a London concert-hall were far more likely to be coldly critical than the music-loving and excitable Italians. He realized, too, that upon the success or failure of this rather bold experiment depended in large measure the young violinist’s future career, and he confessed secretly to Aunt Delia that he would be relieved and glad when the evening was over. As for the dear old lady herself, she was scarcely able to control her excitement, and she kept following Philip about the house all day with milk-punches and some homœopathic pellets which she had been told were excellent for the nerves.
“But Philip has no nerves,” saidLord Ashden, laughing, and baring the boy’s wrist that Aunt Delia might lay her hand upon the pulse which was beating with the calmness and regularity of a trip-hammer. As for Philip, he could only repeat what he had said at Milan:
“I can but play my best, and I hope the audience may like it; at any rate, I have no fear of breaking down, for I know my score perfectly.”
His cousins were all excitement and affectionate interest, all, that is to say, except Marion, who continued to maintain her air of haughty disdain, and once or twice when the others were talking of the concert, she even yawned perceptibly, and at last left the room.
Philip, try as he would not to care, was deeply wounded by her behavior, and in his humility he felt that he must be in some way deserving of her scorn.
“She is so clever,” he thought, “andso perfectly at her ease in a drawing-room! I suppose that in comparison I must appear very green and awkward; and yet Rose and Lillie seem to like me. I wonder if they are only kind to me because they fear to hurt my feelings?”
And thus the poor sensitive boy tormented himself up to the moment when the carriage appeared at the door to take them to the concert; then, fortunately for his peace of mind, he began to think of the music which he was about to play, and this soon drove all other thoughts from his mind.
Dash had spent the day close at Philip’s heels, and as the evening approached he seemed to feel that something unusual was to occur; and when at last the party assembled in the hall, ready to start for the concert, the little creature’s excitement increased, and he went from one to the other, beggingso earnestly to be taken along that Philip at last said laughingly:
“I believe that Dash thinks I am going away on another journey, for he whines precisely as he did when we started for Italy three years ago. Be a good dog! Down, Dash! You know you cannot go, and, after all, I will soon be back, you foolish dog!”
But Dash only barked and fidgeted the more, and at last when they were all in the carriage, he broke away from the servant who was trying to hold him in the hall, and springing into the coach attempted to creep under the seat. Philip, however, was too quick for him, and dragging him forth again carried him back into the house. As they drove down the street they could hear him howling dismally, and Dr. Norton remarked laughingly:
“It is fortunate we don’t believe in signs, Philip, or Dash’s howling wouldcertainly be looked upon as a bad omen.”
They remembered this afterwards, and also that Philip replied in his clear, sweet voice:
“Dash is a very wise dog, Uncle Frank, and perhaps he had his own reasons for whining as he did.”
Philip was very quiet during the drive to the concert-hall, which was quite a long one, and indeed none of the party felt much inclined toward conversation until Marion said at last:
“Dear me, how solemn and stupid we all are. One would think we were going to a funeral. I wish it were all over,” she added. “We shall be so conspicuous, and I hate crowds.”
“Marion!” said her mother reprovingly. And glancing at Philip she was glad to notice that he had not apparently heeded his cousin’s remark.
“I must have a serious talk withMarion,” said Mrs. Norton to herself. “She seems to have grown quite thoughtless of the feelings of others of late, and I am afraid she has wounded Philip several times since her return. What can have come over her, I wonder?”
And then the carriage drew up before the stage-door, and Philip was pounced upon by his manager and carried off, while the others slowly made their way through the crowds which were pouring into the building, to the box which had been reserved for their party near the stage.
There were to be other performers besides Philip—a celebrated pianist, a player on the harp, and a popular prima donna; so many attractions filled the house that even Marion, looking at the brilliant audience, was forced to acknowledge that it was a great compliment to Philip’s playing that heshould have been asked to appear on such an occasion; while Lord Ashden felt some nervous apprehension as he remarked several of the most distinguished musical critics in London in a box near their own.
Just before Philip’s turn to play came on the programme, a friend of Lord Ashden sent down from his box in the centre of the house to suggest that the party should join him there, as a better view of the whole house and of Philip’s effect upon the audience could be gained at a greater distance from the stage; so Dr. and Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Seldon and Lord Ashden, quietly made the change, leaving the girls in charge of Miss Acton during their absence.
The latter shared with Lillie her nervousness and excitement, and they were both so full of hopes and fears for Philip that they hardly gave civil attentionto the professor’s wonderful piano gymnastics, or listened to Madame Lalage when she sang Cherubini’s “Ave” in her thrilling and matchless voice. And even Marion leaned breathlessly forward, forgetful for once of herself and her becoming new gown, as the prima donna’s billowy robes and shimmering satin train swept out of sight and Philip stepped quietly forth upon the stage.
They need not have feared for him, for he was perfectly composed, and stood looking curiously about the house, smiling a little and waiting until the applause which followed the retreating favorite should have quite died away. He was unknown to the greater part of the audience, and a murmur went about the house; he was so young, a mere baby,—was it possible he could play? And then he raised his violin and began. The people glanced at their programmes:“Bach’s Allemande, Suite No. 2, in C Major.” Another flutter of surprise, and then gradually silence, deep and profound, as dreamily and rhythmically the wave-like accentuation of the mystical melody fell upon the listening ears which were entranced by the wonderful pathos of the composition as the young performer rendered it. An intense stillness held the whole house, and not a note was lost till he finished, and with downcast eyes made his low, grave salutation, and turned to leave the stage. Before he vanished a superb bouquet from the duchess was handed him, and his patroness herself from her box bent forward with sparkling eyes, bowing and smiling her delighted approval.
The spellbound audience rallied then and deafened itself with applause, but owing to the length of thebill there were to be no encores; so the pianist took his place, to be succeeded by the other performers, and then, after another song by Lalage, Philip returned, and as he took his place there was a rather quick fluttering of programmes as people looked quickly to see what they were to hear from the beautiful, wonderful boy violinist. But “A Study,” with no composer’s name annexed, gave no clue to what they might expect.
He began with a sweet, soft melody in A, a pathetic lullaby that seemed, with all its sweetness, to carry a desolate sadness that made the tears start to many eyes; then the music changed strangely, and wild, defiant sounds took the place of the unutterably sweet melody; gradually these new sounds gave way to throbbing, wailing strains, which told of unfathomable sorrow and hopeless despair. The keen agonythat the music expressed seemed to oppress the audience, and many of them wept unrestrainedly. Lillie and Miss Acton, feeling certain that the “Study” was Philip’s own composition, and was the musical expression of his own thoughts, shrank to the back of the box to conceal their convulsive weeping. Marion kept her place, but even she lifted her handkerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes. She could hardly feel ashamed of her emotion when she saw the impulsive and music-loving duchess opposite sobbing like a child; but no one is all evil, and perhaps the music really touched what was good and genuine in her nature, and elevated her for the time above the arrogance that made her unlovely in spite of all her grace and beauty.
In another moment the pitiful minor passages that were thrilling the listenerswould have become unbearable, but sweet flashes of sound began to break through, and the woe melted into a lovely pastoral that, like a song without words, told the story of a quiet, happy life, with only the occasional anguish of a dull minor strain that broke upon the calm like the disturbing intrusion of a haunting, uneasy thought that could not always be repressed. Once, as he played, he turned his head slightly and looked fixedly for a moment into his cousins’ box, and the color burned for an instant in his pale face as he met Marion’s tearful eyes; but there was no pause in the music, and if any one noticed the passing emotion, no one understood it. And once again the thunder of clapping hands passed over the house as the young musician quietly withdrew, and people turned their programmes to see if he was to play again.
“Once more,” they murmured, and Lillie and Miss Acton retired again to the back of the box, where this time they were joined by Marion, to talk over their cousin’s triumph.