Tales from Bohemia Part 3

II. -- A BIT OF MELODY

[Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy of the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_.]

It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on the following night.

Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and pa.s.sed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight.

The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the danger of the icy pavements. "I'm t'ankful to be at last home," he said, showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the m.u.f.fler from his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red beard. "Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera."

"Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. Good night."

The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the taciturnity of his countryman and confrere, with a gesture and a look of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs.

As I pa.s.sed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf.

My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile:

"My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity cofers a mult.i.tude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer."

We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and matinee duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could not p.r.o.nounce it.

One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the ---- Theatre orchestra.

Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes.

All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to collide with my friend the doctor.

"I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat," I said. "Won't you join me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster."

"With pleasure," he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; "not for your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circ.u.mstances connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should remember it."

"I can never express my regret," I said. "But you may be able to catch it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?"

"Two blocks away, pa.s.sing a church. I think it was the shining of the electric light upon the stained gla.s.s window that brought it back to me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong light was falling upon the stained gla.s.s windows of the church opposite the house in which I had apartments."

"Perhaps, then," I suggested, "the law of a.s.sociation may operate again if you take the trouble to walk back and repa.s.s the church in the same manner and the same state of mind, as nearly as you can resume them."

"By Jove," said the doctor, who likes experiments of this kind, "I'll try it. Wait for me here."

I stood at the corner while the doctor briskly retraced his steps. His firmly built, comfortable-looking form pa.s.sed rapidly away. Within five minutes he was back, a triumphant smile lighting his face.

"Success!" he said. "I have it, although whether from chance or as a result of repeating my impression of light falling on a church window I can't say. Certainly, after all these years, the tune is again mine.

Listen."

As we proceeded up the street the doctor whistled a few measures composing a rather peculiar melody, expressive, it seemed to me, of unrest. I never forget a tune I have once heard, and this one was soon fixed in my memory.

"And the interesting circ.u.mstances under which you heard it?" I interrogated. "Surely after the concern I've shown in the matter, you're not going to deprive me of the story that goes with the tune?"

"There is no reason why I should. But I hope you will not circulate the melody. It is the music that accompanies a tragedy."

"Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't much of the music."

"I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife.

His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from Breslau. The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed herself, by her attire and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and without having more than the slightest acquaintance with the pair, I soon learned that she had no knowledge of or taste for music. He had married her, I suppose, for her beauty, and had too late discovered the incompatibility of their temperaments. But he loved her pa.s.sionately and jealously. One day I heard loud words between them, from which I gathered unintentionally that something had aroused his jealousy. She replied with laughter and taunts to his threats. The quarrel ended with her abrupt departure from the room and from the house.

"He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play in the manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that first responded to his touch, modifying it at several repet.i.tions, he eventually gave out the form that I have just whistled.

"Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were with----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled.

The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to this day."

We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm cafe, with appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me again the husband's name.

"Heinrich Spellerberg."

"And who had the woman been?"

"I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents.

She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique."

"You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?"

"No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong."

"Do you remember the exact date of the murder?"

"Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever since--forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled--as to-night."

"And the man, what did he look like?"

"Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and plentiful, especially about the back of his neck."

"In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?"

"No, it did not recur to me until later."

"And nothing was said about it by anybody?"

"No one but myself knew anything about it--except the murderer; and unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in the world who have heard it."

"But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd--quite too good for him to have wasted."

"Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, wouldn't it?"

"Rather."

I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an adjacent table.