The First Violin Part 63

His earnestness moved me deeply. His voice was musical, sweet. His accent made the German burr soft; he was half Italian. I had been at the instrumental concert the previous night, for old a.s.sociation's sake, and they had played the two movements of Schubert's unfinished symphony--the B minor. The refrain in the last movement haunted me--a refrain of seven cadences, which rises softly and falls, dies away, is carried softly from one instrument to another, wanders afar, returns again, sinks lower and lower, deeper and deeper, till at last the 'celli (if I mistake not) takes it up for the last time, and the melody dies a beautiful death, leaving you undecided whether to weep or smile, but penetrated through and through with its dreamy loveliness.

This exquisite refrain lingered in my memory and echoed in my mind, like a voice from some heavenly height, telling me to rest and be at peace, in time to the swinging of the censer, in harmony with the musical southern voice of that unknown Brother Somebody.

By degrees I began to think that the censer did not sway so regularly, so like a measured pendulum as it had done, but was moving somewhat erratically, and borne upon the gale came a low, ominous murmur, which first mingled itself with the voice of the preacher, and then threatened to dominate it. Still the refrain of the symphony rang in my ears, and I was soothed to rest by the inimitable nepenthe of music.

But the murmur of which I had so long been, as it were, half-conscious, swelled and drove other sounds and the thoughts of them from my mind. It grew to a deep, hollow roar--a very hurricane of a roar. The preacher's voice ceased, drowned.

I think none of us were at first certain about what was happening; we only felt that something tremendous was going on. Then, with one mighty bang and blow of the tempest, the door by which I had entered the church was blown bodily in, and fell crashing upon the floor; and after the hurricane came rushing through the church with the howl of a triumphant demon, and hurried round the building, extinguishing every light, and turning a temple of G.o.d into Hades.

Sounds there were as of things flapping from the walls, as of wood falling; but all was in the pitchiest darkness--a very "darkness which might be felt." Amid the roar of the wind came disjointed, broken exclamations of terrified women and angry, impatient men. "_Ach Gott!_"

"_Du meine Zeit!_" "_Herr du meine Gute!_" "_Oh je!_" etc., rang all round, and hurrying people rushed past me, making confusion worse confounded as they scrambled past to try to get out.

I stood still, not from any bravery or presence of mind, but from utter annihilation of both qualities in the shock and surprise of it all. At last I began trying to grope my way toward the door. I found it. Some people--I heard and felt rather than saw--were standing about the battered-in door, and there was the sound of water hurrying past the door-way. The Rhine was rushing down the street.

"We must go to the other door--the west door," said some one among the people; and as the group moved I moved too, beginning to wish myself well out of it.

We reached the west door; it led into a small lane or _ga.s.se_, regarding the geography of which I was quite at sea, for I had only been in it once before. I stepped from the street into the lane, which was in the very blackness of darkness, and seemed to be filled with wind and a hurricane which one could almost distinguish and grasp.

The roar of the wind and the surging of water were all around, and were deafening. I followed, as I thought, some voices which I heard, but scarcely knew where I was going, as the wind seemed to be blowing all ways at once, and there came to me an echo here and an echo there, misleading rather than guiding. In a few moments I felt my foot upon wood, and there was a loud creaking and rattling, as of chains, a groaning, splitting, and great uproar going on, as well as a motion as if I were on board a ship.

After making a few steps I paused. It was utterly impossible that I could have got upon a boat--wildly impossible. I stood still, then went on a few steps. Still the same extraordinary sounds--still such a creaking and groaning--still the rush, rush, and swish, swish of water; but not a human voice any more, not a light to be seen, not a sign!

With my hat long since stripped from my head and launched into darkness and s.p.a.ce, my hair lashed about me in all directions, my petticoats twisted round me like ropes, I was utterly and completely bewildered by the thunder and roar of all around. I no longer knew which way I had come nor where to turn. I could not imagine where I was, and my only chance seemed to be to hold fast and firm to the railing against which the wind had unceremoniously banged me.

The creaking grew louder--grew into a crash; there was a splitting of wood, a snapping of chains, a kind of whirl, and then I felt the wind blow upon me, first upon this side, then from that, and became conscious that the structure upon which I stood was moving--floating smoothly and rapidly upon water. In an instant (when it was too late) it all flashed upon my mind. I had wandered upon the Schiffbrucke, or bridge of boats which crossed the Rhine from the foot of the market-place, and this same bridge had been broken by the strength of the water and wind, and upon a portion of it I was now floating down the river.

With my usual wisdom, and "the shrewd application of a wide experience so peculiar to yourself," as some one has since insulted me by saying, I instantly gave myself up as lost. The bridge would run into some other bridge, or dash into a steamer, or do something horrible, and I should be killed, and none would know of my fate; or it would all break into little pieces, and I should have to cling to one of them, and should inevitably be drowned.

In any case, my destruction was only a matter of time. How I loved my life then! How sweet, and warm, and full, and fresh it seemed! How cold the river, and how undesirable a speedy release from the pomps and vanities of this wicked world!

The wind was still howling horribly--chanting my funeral dirge. Like grim death, I held on to my railing, and longed, with a desperate longing, for one glimpse of light.

I had believed myself alone upon my impromptu raft--or rather, it had not occurred to me that there might be another than myself upon it; but at this instant, in a momentary lull of the wind, almost by my side I heard a sound that I knew well, and had cause to remember--the tune of the wild march from "Lenore," set to the same words, sung by the same voice as of yore.

My heart stood still for a moment, then leaped on again. Then a faint, sickly kind of dread overcame me. I thought I was going out of my mind--was wandering in some delusion, which took the form of the dearest voice, and sounded with its sound in my ears.

But no. The melody did not cease. As the beating of my heart settled somewhat down, I still heard it--not loud, but distinct. Then the tune ceased. The voice--ah! there was no mistaking that, and I trembled with the joy that thrilled me as I heard it--conned over the words as if struck with their weird appropriateness to the scene, which was certainly marked:

"Und das Gesindel, husch, husch, husch Kam hinten nachgepra.s.selt-- Wie Wirbelwind am Haselbusch Durch durre Blatter ra.s.selt."

And _wirbelwind_--the whirlwind--played a wild accompaniment to the words.

It seemed to me that a long time pa.s.sed, during which I could not speak, but could only stand with my hands clasped over my heart, trying to steady its tumultuous beating. I had not been wrong, thank the good G.o.d above! I had not been wrong when my heart sung for joy at being once more in this land. He was here--he was living--he was safe!

Here were all my worst fears soothed--my intensest longings answered without my having spoken. It was now first that I really knew how much I loved him--so much that I felt almost afraid of the strength of the pa.s.sion. I knew not till now how it had grown--how fast and all-denominating it had become.

A sob broke from my lips, and his voice was silenced.

"Herr Courvoisier!" I stammered.

"Who spoke?" he asked in a clear voice.

"It is you!" I murmured.

"May!" he uttered, and paused abruptly.

A hand touched mine--warm, firm, strong--his very hand. In its lightest touch there seemed safety, shelter, comfort.

"Oh, how glad I am! how glad I am!" I sobbed.

He murmured "Sonderbar!" as if arguing with himself, and I held his hand fast.

"Don't leave me! Stay here!" I implored.

"I suppose there is not much choice about that for either of us," said he, and he laughed.

I did not remember to wonder how he came there; I only knew that he was there. That tempest, which will not soon be forgotten in Elberthal, subsided almost as rapidly as it had arisen. The winds lulled as if a wizard had bidden them be still. The gale hurried on to devastate fresh fields and pastures new. There was a sudden reaction of stillness, and I began to see in the darkness the outlines of a figure beside me. I looked up. There was no longer that hideous, driving black mist, like chaos embodied, between me and heaven. The sky, though dark, was clear; some stars were gleaming coldly down upon the havoc which had taken place since they last viewed the scene.

Seeing the heavens so calm and serene, a sudden feeling of shyness and terror overtook me. I tried to withdraw my hand from that of my companion, and to remove myself a little from him. He held my hand fast.

"You are exhausted with standing?" said he. "Sit down upon this ledge."

"If you will too."

"Oh, of course. I think our voyage will be a long one, and--"

"Speak German," said I. "Let me hear you speaking it again."

"And I have no mind to stand all the time," he concluded in his own tongue.

"Is there no one else here but ourselves?"

"No one."

I had seated myself and he placed himself beside me. I was in no laughing mood or I might have found something ludicrous in our situation.

"I wonder where we are now," I half whispered, as the bridge was still hurried ceaselessly down the dark and rushing river. I dared not allude to anything else. I felt my heart was too full--I felt too, too utterly uncertain of him. There was sadness in his voice. I, who knew its every cadence, could hear that.

"I think we are about pa.s.sing Kaiserswerth," said he. "I wonder where we shall land at last."

"Do you think we shall go very far?"

"Perhaps we may. It is on record that the Elberthal boat bridge--part of it, I mean--once turned up at Rotterdam. It may happen again, _warum nicht_?"

"How long does that take?"

"Twelve or fourteen hours, I dare say."

I was silent.