The First Violin Part 51

"Oh, nothing--nothing! I wonder when he will return! I would give a world to be in England!" she said, with a heartsick sigh; and I, feeling very much bewildered, left her.

In the afternoon, despite wind and weather, I sallied forth, and took my way to my old lodgings in the Wehrhahn. Crossing a square leading to the street I was going to, I met Anna Sartorius. She bowed, looking at me mockingly. I returned her salutation, and remembered last night again with painful distinctness. The air seemed full of mysteries and uncertainties; they clung about my mind like cobwebs, and I could not get rid of their soft, stifling influence.

Having arrived at my lodgings, I mounted the stairs. Frau Lutzler met me.

"_Na_, _na_, Fraulein! You do not patronize me much now. My rooms are becoming too small for you, I reckon."

"Indeed, Frau Lutzler, I wish I had never been in any larger ones," I answered her, earnestly.

"So! Well, 'tis true you look thin and worn--not as well as you used to.

And were you--but I heard you were, so where's the use of telling lies about it--at the Maskenball last night? And how did you like it?"

"Oh, it was all very new to me. I never was at one before."

"_Nicht?_ Then you must have been astonished. They say there was a Mephisto so good he would have deceived the devil himself. And you, Fraulein--I heard that you looked very beautiful."

"So! It must have been a mistake."

"_Doch nicht!_ I have always maintained that at certain times you were far from bad-looking, and dressed and got up for the stage, would be absolutely handsome. Nearly any one can be that--if you are not too near the foot-lights, that is, and don't go behind the scenes."

With which neat slaying of a particular compliment by a general one, she released me, and let me go on my way upstairs.

Here I had some books and some music. But the room was cold; the books failed to interest me, and the music did not go--the piano was like me--out of tune. And yet I felt the need of some musical expression of the mood that was upon me. I bethought myself of the Tonhalle, next door, almost, and that in the rittersaal it would be quiet and undisturbed, as the ball that night was not to be held there, but in one of the large rooms of the Caserne.

Without pausing to think a second time of the plan, I left the house and went to the Tonhalle, only a few steps away. In consequence of the rain and bad weather almost every trace of the carnival had disappeared. I found the Tonhalle deserted save by a bar-maid at the restauration. I asked her if the rittersaal were open, and she said yes. I pa.s.sed on. As I drew near the door I heard music; the piano was already being played.

Could it be von Francius who was there? I did not think so. The touch was not his--neither so practiced, so brilliant, nor so sure.

Satisfied, after listening a moment, that it was not he, I resolved to go in and pa.s.s through the room. If it were any one whom I could send away I would do so, if not, I could go away again myself.

I entered. The room was somewhat dark, but I went in and had almost come to the piano before I recognized the player--Courvoisier. Overcome with vexation and confusion at the _contretemps_, I paused a moment, undecided whether to turn back and go out again. In any case I resolved not to remain in the room. He was seated with his back to me, and still continued to play. Some music was on the desk of the piano before him.

I might turn back without being observed. I would do so. Hardly, though--a mirror hung directly before the piano, and I now saw that while he continued to play, he was quietly looking at me, and that his keen eyes--that hawk's glance which I knew so well--must have recognized me. That decided me. I would not turn back. It would be a silly, senseless proceeding, and would look much more invidious than my remaining. I walked up to the piano, and he turned, still playing.

"_Guten Tag, mein Fraulein._"

I merely bowed, and began to search through a pile of songs and music upon the piano. I would at any rate take some away with me to give some color to my proceedings. Meanwhile he played on.

I selected a song, not in the least knowing what it was, and rolling it up, was turning away.

"Are you busy, Miss Wedderburn?"

"N--no."

"Would it be asking too much of you to play the pianoforte accompaniment?"

"I will try," said I, speaking briefly, and slowly drawing off my gloves.

"If it is disagreeable to you, don't do it," said he, pausing.

"Not in the very least," said I, avoiding looking at him.

He opened the music. It was one of Jensen's "Wanderbilder" for piano and violin--the "Kreuz am Wege."

"I have only tried it once before," I remarked, "and I am a dreadful bungler."

"_Bitte sehr!_" said he, smiling, arranging his own music on one of the stands and adding, "Now I am ready."

I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow the music. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness, from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me.

"Das Kreuz am Wege" turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over.

"Suppose we try it again," he suggested, and we did so. I found my fingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to the piercing beauty of his notes.

"That is dismal," said he.

"It is a dismal subject, is it not?"

"Suggestive, at least. 'The Cross by the Wayside.' Well, I have a mind for something more cheerful. Did you leave the ball early last night?"

"No; not very early."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was all new to me--very interesting--but I don't think I quite enjoyed it."

"Ah, you should see the b.a.l.l.s at Florence, or Venice, or Vienna!"

He smiled as he leaned back, as if thinking over past scenes.

"Yes," said I, dubiously, "I don't think I care much for such things, though it is interesting to watch the little drama going on around."

"And to act in it," I also thought, remembering Anna Sartorius and her whisper, and I looked at him. "Not honest, not honorable. Hiding from shame and disgrace."

I looked at him and did not believe it. For the moment the torturing idea left me. I was free from it and at peace.

"Were you going to practice?" he asked. "I fear I disturb you."

"Oh, no! It does not matter in the least. I shall not practice now."

"I want to try some other things," said he, "and Friedhelm's and my piano was not loud enough for me, nor was there sufficient s.p.a.ce between our walls for the sounds of a symphony. Do you not know the mood?"

"Yes."

"But I am afraid to ask you to accompany me."

"Why?"

"You seem unwilling."