The First Violin Part 32

"Because, _mein Bester_, she is a cut above you and me, in a different sphere, one that we know nothing about. What is more, she knows it, and shows it. Be glad that you can not lay yourself open to the snub that I got to-night."

There was so much bitterness in his tone that I was surprised. But a sudden remembrance flushed into my mind of his strange remarks after I had left him that day at Cologne, and I laughed to myself, nor, when he asked me, would I tell him why. That evening he had very little to say to Karl Linders and myself.

Eugen never spoke to me of the beautiful girl who had behaved so strangely that evening, though we saw her again and again.

Sometimes I used to meet her in the street, in company with the dark, plain girl, Anna Sartorius, who, I fancied, always surveyed Eugen with a look of recognition. The two young women formed in appearance an almost startling contrast. She came to all the concerts, as if she made music a study--generally she was with a stout, good-natured-looking German Fraulein, and the young Englishman, Vincent. There was always something rather melancholy about her grace and beauty.

Most beautiful she was; with long, slender, artist-like hands, the face a perfect oval, but the features more piquant than regular; sometimes a subdued fire glowed in her eyes and compressed her lips, which removed her altogether from the category of spiritless beauties--a genus for which I never had the least taste.

One morning Courvoisier and I, standing just within the entrance to the theater orchestra, saw two people go by. One, a figure well enough known to every one in Elberthal, and especially to us--that of Max von Francius. Did I ever say that von Francius was an exceedingly handsome fellow, in a certain dark, clean-shaved style? On that occasion he was speaking with more animation than was usual with him, and the person to whom he had unbent so far was the fair English woman--that enigmatical beauty who had cut my friend at the opera. She also was looking animated and very beautiful; her face turned to his with a smile--a glad, gratified smile. He was saying:

"But in the next lesson, you know--"

They pa.s.sed on. I turned to ask Eugen if he had seen. I needed not to put the question. He had seen. There was a forced smile upon his lips.

Before I could speak he had said:

"It's time to go in, Friedel; come along!" With which he turned into the theater, and I followed thoughtfully.

Then it was rumored that at the coming concert--the benefit of von Francius--a new soprano was to appear--a young lady of whom report used varied tones; some believable facts at least we learned about her. Her name, they said was Wedderburn; she was an English woman, and had a most wonderful voice. The Herr Direktor took a very deep interest in her; he not only gave her lessons; he had asked to give her lessons, and intended to form of her an artiste who should one day be to the world a kind of Patti, Lucca, or Nilsson.

I had no doubt in my own mind as to who she was, but for all that I felt considerable excitement on the evening of the haupt-probe to the "Verlorenes Paradies."

Yes, I was right. Miss Wedderburn, the pupil of von Francius, of whom so much was prophesied, was the beautiful, forlorn-looking English girl.

The feeling which grew upon me that evening, and which I never found reason afterward to alter, was that she was modest, gentle, yet spirited, very gifted, and an artiste by nature and gift, yet sadly ill at ease and out of place in that world into which von Francius wished to lead her.

She sat quite near to Eugen and me, and I saw how alone she was, and how she seemed to feel her loneliness. I saw how certain young ladies drew themselves together, and looked at her (it was on this occasion that I first began to notice the silent behavior of women toward each other, and the more I have observed, the more has my wonder grown and increased), and whispered behind their music, and shrugged their shoulders when von Francius, seeing how isolated she seemed, bent forward and said a few kind words to her.

I liked him for it. After all, he was a man. But his distinguishing the child did not add to the delights of her position--rather made it worse.

I put myself in her place as well as I could, and felt her feelings when von Francius introduced her to one of the young ladies near her, who first stared at him, then at her, then inclined her head a little forward and a little backward, turned her back upon Miss Wedderburn, and appeared lost in conversation of the deepest importance with her neighbor. And I thought of the words which Karl Linders had said to us in haste and anger, and after a disappointment he had lately had, "_Das weib ist der teufel._" Yes, woman is the devil sometimes, thought I, and a mean kind of devil too. A female Mephistopheles would not have d.a.m.ned Gretchen's soul, nor killed her body, she would have left the latter on this earthly sphere, and d.a.m.ned her reputation.

Von Francius was a clever man, but he made a grand mistake that night, unless he were desirous of making his protegee as uncomfortable as possible. How could those ladies feel otherwise than insulted at seeing the man of ice so suddenly attentive and bland to a n.o.body, an upstart, and a beautiful one?

The probe continued, and still she sat alone and unspoken to, her only acquaintance or companion seeming to be Fraulein Sartorius, with whom she had come in. I saw how, when von Francius called upon her to do her part, and the looks which had hitherto been averted from her were now turned pitilessly and unwinkingly upon her, she quailed. She bit her lip; her hand trembled. I turned to Eugen with a look which said volumes. He sat with his arms folded, and his face perfectly devoid of all expression, gazing straight before him.

Miss Wedderburn might have been satisfied to the full with her revenge.

That was a voice! such a volume of pure, exquisite melody as I had rarely heard. After hearing that, all doubts were settled. The gift might be a blessing or a curse--let every one decide that for himself, according to his style of thinking--but it was there. She possessed the power which put her out of the category of commonplace, and had the most melodious "Open, Sesame!" with which to besiege the doors of the courts in which dwell artists--creative and interpretative.

The performance finished the gap between her and her companions. Their looks said, "You are not one of us." My angry spirit said, "No; you can never be like her."

She seemed half afraid of what she had done when it was over, and shrunk into herself with downcast eyes and nervous quivering of the lips at the subdued applause of the men. I wanted to applaud too, but I looked at Eugen. I had instinctively given him some share in the affairs of this lovely creature--a share, which he always strenuously repudiated, both tacitly and openly.

Nevertheless, when I saw him I abstained from applauding, knowing, by a lightning-quick intuition, that it would be highly irritating to him. He showed no emotion; if he had done, I should not have thought the occasion was anything special to him. It was his absurd gravity, stony inexpressiveness, which impressed me with the fact that he was moved--moved against his will and his judgment. He could no more help approving both of her and her voice than he could help admiring a perfect, half-opened rose.

It was over, and we went out of the saal, across the road, and home.

Sigmund, who had not been very well that day, was awake, and restless.

Eugen took him up, wrapped him in a little bed-gown, carried him into the other room, and sat down with him. The child rested his head on the loved breast, and was soothed.

She had gone; the door had closed after her. Eugen turned to me, and took Sigmund into his arms again.

"_Mein Vater_, who is the beautiful lady, and why did you speak so harshly to her? Why did you make her cry?"

The answer, though ostensibly spoken to Sigmund, was a revelation to me.

"That I may not have to cry myself," said Eugen, kissing him.

"Could the lady make thee cry?" demanded Sigmund, sitting up, much excited at the idea.

Another kiss and a half laugh was the answer. Then he bade him go to sleep, as he did not understand what he was talking about.

By and by Sigmund did drop to sleep. Eugen carried him to his bed, tucked him up, and returned. We sat in silence--such an uncomfortable constrained silence, as had never before been between us. I had a book before me. I saw no word of it. I could not drive the vision away--the lovely, pleading face, the penitence. Good heavens! How could he repulse her as he had done? Her repeated request that he would take that money--what did it all mean? And, moreover, my heart was sore that he had concealed it all from me. About the past I felt no resentment; there was a secret there which I respected; but I was cut up at this.

The more I thought of it, the keener was the pain I felt.

"Friedel!"

I looked up. Eugen was leaning across the table and his hand was stretched toward me; his eyes looked full into mine. I answered his look, but I was not clear yet.

"Forgive me!"

"Forgive thee what?"

"This playing with thy confidence."

"Don't mention it," I forced myself to say, but the sore feeling still remained. "You have surely a right to keep your affairs to yourself if you choose."

"You will not shake hands? Well, perhaps I have no right to ask it; but I should like to tell you all about it."

I put my hand into his.

"I was wounded," said I, "it is true. But it is over."

"Then listen, Friedel."

He told me the story of his meeting with Miss Wedderburn. All he said of the impression she had made upon him was:

"I thought her very charming, and the loveliest creature I had ever seen. And about the trains. It stands in this way. I thought a few hours of her society would make me very happy, and would be like--oh, well! I knew that in the future, if she ever should see me again, she would either treat me with distant politeness as an inferior, or, supposing she discovered that I had cheated her, would cut me dead. And as it did not matter, as I could not possibly be an acquaintance of hers in the future, I gave myself that pleasure then. It has turned out a mistake on my part, but that is nothing new; my whole existence has been a monstrous mistake. However, now she sees what a churl's nature was under my fair-seeming exterior, her pride will show her what to do. She will take a wrong view of my character, but what does that signify? She will say that to be deceitful first and uncivil afterward are the main features of the German character, and when she is at Cologne on her honey-moon, she will tell her bride-groom about this adventure, and he will remark that the fellow wanted horsewhipping, and she--"

"There! You have exercised your imagination quite sufficiently. Then you intend to keep up this farce of not recognizing her. Why?"

He hesitated, looked as nearly awkward as he could, and said, a little constrainedly:

"Because I think it will be for the best."

"For you or for her?" I inquired, not very fairly, but I could not resist it.

Eugen flushed all over his face.