 CHAPTER NUMBER VIII PART I THE JOURNALIST STORY In a railway station, the tale of a dancer. On Friday night, just as we were finishing dinner, we had eaten inside, the divorcee said, "'It may not be an order to make the remark, but I cannot help saying that it is so strange to think that we are sitting here so quietly in a country at war, suffering for nothing. Very little inconvenienced, even by the departure of all the men. The field work seems to be going on just the same. Everyone seems calm. It is almost unexpected and strange to me.' "'I don't see it that way at all,' said the journalist. "'I feel as if I were sitting on a volcano, knowing it was going to erupt, but not knowing at what moment.' "'That I understand,' said the divorcee. "'But that is not exactly what I mean. I meant that, in spite of that feeling, which everyone between here and Paris must have, I see no outward signs of it.' "'They are all about us just the same,' remarked the doctor, whether you see them or not. "'Did it ever happen to you to be walking in some quiet city street near midnight, when all the houses were closed, and only here and there a street lamp gleamed, and here and there a ray of light filtered through the shuttered window of some silent house, and to suddenly remember that inside all these dark walls the tragedies of life were going on, and that if a sudden wave of magicians wand were to wipe away the walls, how horrified, or how amused one would be.' "'Well,' said the lawyer, "'I have had that idea many times, but it has come to me more often in some hotel in the mountains of Switzerland. I remember one night sitting on the terrace at Muren, with a young frow rising in the bridal whiteness above the black sides of the Schwartzmonk, and the moon shining so brightly over the slopes that I could count any number of isolated little chalets perched on the ledges, and I never had the feeling so strongly of life going on, with all its joys and griefs and crimes invisible but oppressive. "'I am afraid,' said the doctor, "'that there is enough of it going on right here if we only knew it. I had an example this afternoon. I was walking through the village when an old woman called to me and asked if I were the doctor from the old Grange. I said I was, and she begged me to come in and see her daughter-in-law. She was very ill, and the local doctor is gone. I found a young, very pretty girl, with a tiny baby, in as bad a shape of hysteria as I ever saw. But that is not the story that I heard by degrees. It seems the father-in-law, a veteran of 1870, now old, and nearly helpless, is of good family, but married in his middle age a woman of the country. They had one son who was sent away to school and became a civil engineer. He married about two years ago, this pretty girl whom I saw. She is Spanish. He met her somewhere in southern Spain, and it was a desperate love match. The first child was born about six weeks before the war broke out. Of course the young husband was in the first class mobilized. The young wife is not French. She doesn't care at all who governs France, so that her man were left her in peace. I imagine the old father suspected this. He had never been happy that his one son married a foreigner. The instant the young wife realized that her man was expected to put love of France before love of her, she began to make every effort to induce him to go out of the country. To make a long story short, the son went to his mother, whom he adored, made a clean breast of the situation, and proposed that to satisfy his wife he should start with her for the Spanish frontier, finding means to have her brother meet them there and take her home to her own people. He promised to make no effort to cross the frontier himself and gave his word of honor to be with his regiment in time. He knew it would not be easy to do, and in case of accident he wished his mother to be able to explain to the old veteran. But the let had counted without the spirit that is dominant in every French woman to-day. The mother listened. She controlled herself. She did not protest, but that night, when the young couple were about to leave the house carrying the sleeping baby, they found the old man pistol in hand with his back against the door. The words were few. The veteran stated that his son could only pass over his dead body. That he had insisted he would shoot him before he would allow him to pass. That neither wife nor child should leave France. It was in vain that the wife, on her knees, pleaded that she was not French, that the war did not concern her, that her husband was dearer to her than honor, and so forth. The old man declared that in marrying his son she became French. So she was a disgrace to the name that her son was a born Frenchman, that she might go and welcome, but she would go without the child. And of course that entered the argument. The next morning the baby was christened. But the tale had leaked out. I suppose the Spanish wife had not kept her ideas absolutely to herself, and the son joined his regiment. The Spanish wife is still here, but needless to say she is not at all loved by her husband's family, who watch her like linkses for fear that she will abduct the child, and she has developed as neat a case of hysterical mania of persecution as I ever encountered. So you see that even in this quiet place there are tragedies behind the walls. But I seem to be telling a story out of my turn. And it is a forbidden war story at that, said the youngster. So change the air. Whose turn is it? The journalist puffed out his chest. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, as he rose to his feet and struck the traditional attitude of a monologous, I regret to inform you that you will be obliged to have a taste of my histrionic powers. I've got to act out part of this story. Couldn't seem to tell it in any other form. Dora, a slender young woman turned at the word, so sharply spoken over her shoulder, and visibly paled. She was strikingly attractive in her modest Taylor frock and her short tight jacket of Persian lamb, with its high collar of gray fur turned up to her ears. Her singularly fair skin, her red hair, her brown eyes with dark lashes, and narrowly penciled eyebrows that were almost black, gave her a remarkable look, and at first sight suggested that nature had not done it all. But a closer observation convinced one that the strange combination of such hair and such eyebrows was only one of those freaks by which nature now and then warns the knowing to beware even of marvelous beauty. In this case it stamped a woman, as one who, by several signs, might be identified by the initiated as one of those who, without reason or logic, spring now and again from most unpromising soil. She had walked the entire length of the station, from the wide doors on the street side to the swing doors at the opposite end which gave entrance to the tracks. As she passed no man had failed to turn and look after her, as with her well-hung skirts just clearing the wet pavement she stepped daintily over the flagging, and so lightly that neither boots nor skirt were the worse for it. One sees women in Paris who know the art, but it is rare in an American. She must have been long accustomed to attracting masculine eyes, and no wonder, for when she stepped into the place she seemed to give a color to the atmosphere, and everything and every body went gray and commonplace beside her. It was a terrible night in November. The snow was falling rapidly outside, and the wind blew as it can blow only on the New England coast. It was the sort of night that makes one forced to be out, look forward lovingly to home, and think pityingly of the unfortunate, while those with indoors involuntarily thank God for comfort and hug at whatever remnant of happiness living has left them. The railway station was crowded. The storm had come up suddenly at the close of a fair day. It was the hour two at which tradespeople, clerks, and laborers were returning home to the suburbs, and at which the steamboat express for New York was being made up, although it was not an encouraging night for the latter trip. The pretty young woman with the red hair had looked through the door near the tracks and glanced to the right where the New York express should be. The gate was still closed. She was much too early. For a second she hesitated. She glanced about quickly, and the look was not without apprehension. It was evident that she did not see the man who was following her and who seemed to have been waiting for her near the outer door. He did not speak nor attract her attention in any way. The crowd served him in that. After a moment's hesitation she turned toward the lady's waiting-room, and just as she was about to enter, the man behind addressed her. And the word was so low that no one near heard it, though by the start she gave it might have been a pistol shot. Dora. She stood perfectly still. The color died out of her face, but only for an instant. She looked alarmed, then perplexed, then she smiled. She was evidently a young woman of resources. The man was a stalwart, handsome fellow of his class. Though it was almost impossible to guess what that was, save that it was not that which the word labels by exterior signs gentlemen. He might easily have been some sort of mechanic. He was certainly neither a clerk nor the follower of any of the unskilled professions. He was surely country bread, for there was a largeness in his expression as well as its bearing that spoke distinctly of broad vistas and exercise. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He stood well on his feet, hampered as little by his six feet of height and fourteen stone weight as he was by the size of his hands. One would have easily backed him to ride well and shoot straight, though he probably never saw the inside of what's called a drawing-room. There was the fire of a mighty emotion in his deep-set eyes. There were signs of a tremendous animal force in his square chin and thick neck. But it was balanced well by his broad brow and wide-set eyes. He seemed at this moment to hold himself in check with rigid stubbornness that answered for his New England origin and Puritan ancestry. Indeed, at the moment he addressed the woman, but for his eyes he might have seemed as indifferent as any of the stone figures that upheld the iron girders of the roof above him. While smiling archly, she moved forward into the waiting-room and passed through the dense crowd that hung about the door, crossed the room to an open space. Without a word the man followed. The room was dimly lighted. The crowd that surged about them, coming and going and sometimes pressing close on every side, seemed not to note them. And if they had, they would have been nothing more remarkable than an extremely pretty young woman conversing quietly with a big fellow in a reefer and long boots, a rig he carried well. Dora, he said again, and then paused to steady his voice. Dora wet her red lips with the pointed tip of her tiny tongue. Swallowed nervously once or twice before she spoke, she was now facing him and still smiling. He kept his eyes fixed on her face. He did not respond to the smile. His eyes were tragic. He seemed to be seeking something in her face as if he feared her mere words would not help him. "'Why, Zeke,' she said at last, when she realized that she could not get beyond her name, "'I thought you had gone home an hour ago. Why didn't you take the five-fifteen train?' I changed my mind. To tell you the truth, I heard that you were in town this afternoon. I have been watching you for some time. "'Well, all I can say is you are foolish. Where's the good for you fretting yourself so I can take care of myself? I can't get used to you being about in the city streets alone.' Absurd! I have been absurd a great many times of late in your eyes. Our ideas don't seem to agree any more. "'No, Zeke, they don't.' "'Why speak to me in that tone, Dora? Don't do it.' He looked over her head as if to be sure of his hold on himself. He was ghastly white about his smooth-shaven thick lips. Both hands were thrust deep into his reefer pockets. "'What's come to you, Zeke?' she asked nervously. His was not exactly the face one would see unmoved. He answered her without looking at her. It was evident he did not dare just yet. "'Nothin' much, I reckon. I've been a-but down all day. I really don't know why myself. I had a queer presentment as if something were going to happen, as if something terrible were coming to me. "'Well, I'm sorry. You have no occasion to feel like that, I am sure.' "'All right, if you say so. What train shall we take?' He stretched out one hand to take the small bag she carried. She shrank back instinctively and withdrew the bag. He must have felt, rather than seen, the movement. It was so slight. His hand fell to his side. Still he persisted. "'I'm dead done up, Dora. I'd need my dinner. Come on.' "'Then you'd better take the six o'clock train. You've just time,' she said hurriedly. "'All right. Come on.' He laid his hand on her shoulder with a gesture that was in treating. It was the first time he had touched her. A frightened look came into her eyes. He did not see it, for he was still avoiding her face. It was as if he were afraid of reading something there he did not wish to know. Her red lips had taken on a petulant expression. That one of who hated to be stirred up, in a childish voice which only thinly veiled an obstinate determination, she pouted, "'I'm not going, yet.' The words were said almost under her breath, as if she were fearful of their effect on him. Yet was determined to carry her point. The man only sighed deeply as he replied. I thought your dancing lessons were over. I hoped I was no longer to spend my evenings alone. Alone. Looking round at the things that are yours and among which I feel so out of place, except when you were there to make me forget. God, what damnable evenings I've spent there, feeling as if you were slipping further and further out of my life, as if you were gone, and I had only the clothes you had worn and odor about me somewhere to convince me that I had not dreamed you. Somewhere that faint, indistinct, evasive scent of you in the room has almost driven me out of my head. I wonder if I haven't killed you before now, to be sure of you. I'm afraid of hell, I suppose, or I should have. The woman did not look at all alarmed. Indeed there was a light in her amber eyes that spoke of the kind of gratification in stirring this young giant like that. This huge fellow could so easily crush her, but did not. She knew better why than he did, but she said nothing. With his eyes still fixed on space after a pause he went on. I was fool enough to believe that was all over, at last, that you had danced to your heart's content, and that we were to begin the old life, the life before that nonsense, over again. You were like my old Dora, all day yesterday. The Dora I loved and courted and married back there in the woods. But I might have known it wasn't finished by the ache I had here, and he struck himself a blow over the heart with his clenched fist. An eye awakened this morning, and by the weight I have carried here all day. And he drew a deep breath like one in pain. The woman looked about as if apprehensive that even his passionate undertone might have attracted attention. But only a man by the radiator seemed to have noticed, and he had the air of being not quite sober enough to understand. There was a long pause. The woman glanced nervously at the clock. The man was again staring over her head. It was a quarter to six. Her precious minutes were flying. She must be rid of him. CHAPTER VIII. THE JOURNALIST STORY See here, Zeke-dear, she said, in desperation, speaking very rapidly under her breath. No fear but he would hear. The truth is I'm not a bit better satisfied with our sordid kind of life than I was a year ago, when we first discussed it. I'm awfully sorry, you know that. But I can't change, and there is the whole truth. It is not your fault in one way, and yet in one way it is. God knows you have done everything you could, and more, some ways than you ought. But, unluckily for you, gratifying me was not the way to mend the situation for yourself. It is cruel, but it is the truth. If a man wants to keep a woman of my disposition attached to him, he'd do far better to beat her than overeducate her and teach her all the beauties of freedom. He should keep her ignorant, rather than cultivate her imagination and open up the wonders of the world to her. It's rough on chaps like you, that with all your cleverness you've no instinct to set you right on point like this. But it is lucky for a woman like me at times. You were determined to force all of this out of me, so you may well hear the whole brutal truth. I'm sick of our stupid ways of life. I have been sick of it for a long time. I passed all power to pretend any longer. I have learned there is a great and beautiful world within the reach of women who are clever enough and brave enough to grasp at an opportunity, without looking forward or back. I want to walk boldly to this. I'm not afraid of the stepping stones. This is really all your fault. When you married me five years ago, I was only 16 and very much in love with you. Now, why didn't you make me do the housework and drudge as all the other women on the farms about yours did? I'd have done it then, and willingly, even to the washing and scrubbing. I had been working in a cotton mill. I didn't know anything better than to drudge. I thought it was a woman's lot. It didn't even seem terrible to me. But no, you set yourself up to amuse me. You brought me way up to town on a wedding journey. For the first time in my life I saw there idle women in the world who wore soft clothes and were always dressed up. You bought me finery. I was clever and imitative. I pine for all the excitement and beauty of the city life when we were back on the farm in the life you loved. I cried for it. As a child cries for the moon, I never dreamed of getting it. And you surprised me by selling the farm and coming nearer the town to live. Just because I had an ear for music and could pick out tunes on the old melodian, I must have a piano and take lessons. Just because my music teacher happened to be French and I showed an aptitude for studying, that must be gratified. Can you really blame me if I want to see more of the wide world that opened up to me? Did you really think French novels and music were likely to make a woman of my lively imagination content with her lot as a wife of a mechanic? However clever. The man looked down at her as if stunned. Arguments of that sort were a bit above the reasoning of a simple masculine animal who seemed to belong to that race which comprehends little of the complex emotions and looks on love as the one inevitable passion of life and on marriage as its logical result and everlasting conclusion. It was probable at this moment that he completed his alphabet in the great lessons of life and spelled out painfully the awful truth that not all the royal service of worship and love in a man's heart can hold a woman. There was something akin to a sob in his throat as he replied, You were so young, so pretty. I could not bear to think that you should soil your hands for me. I wanted to make up to you for all the hardships and sorrows of your childhood. I dreamed of being mother and father as well as husband to you. I thought it would make you happy to owe everything to me as happy as it made me to give. I would willingly have carried you every step of your life rather than you should have tired your feet. Is that a sin in a woman's eyes? A whimsical smile broke over the woman's face. It quivered on her red lips for just a breath as if conscious of how ill-timed it was. I really like to tire my feet, she murmured, and she pointed to the toe of her tiny boot, as if poised to dance, and looked down on it with evident admiration. Man caught his breath sharply. It's that damn dancing that has upset you, Dora. Don't swear. I do like dancing. I have always told you so. But it was you who first admired it. It was you who let me learn. You were my wife. I thought that meant everything to you that it meant to me. I loved your beauty because it was yours. Your pleasures because they gave you pleasure. All my ideas of right and wrong and marriage which I had learned in my father's honest house meant to your desires and happiness. She looked nervously at the clock. 10 minutes to six. Dora, for God's sakes, look at me. Dora, you're not leaving me. It was an almost inarticulate cry as of a man who had foreseen his doom and only protested from some unconquerable instinct to struggle. She padded his clenched hand gently. It was plainly evident that she hated the sight of suffering and hated more not having her own way and was possessed by a refined kind of cowardice. Don't make a row. There's a dear boy. It is like this. I'm going over to New York. Just for a few weeks, I would have told you yesterday only I hated spoiling a nice day. It was a nice day. With a scene, you'll find a nice long letter at home. It's a sweet one, too, telling you all about it. Don't take it too hard. I'm going to earn $50 a week. Just fancy that. Don't blame me too much. He didn't seem to hear. He hung his head, the veins in his forehead swelled. There were actually tears in his eyes, and the mighty effort he made to restrain a sob was terrible, and six feet of American manhood, as fine a specimen of the animal as the soil can show, animated by a spirit which represented well the dignity of toil and self-respect, stood bowed down with ungovernable grief and shame before a merely ornamental bit of femininity. Fade had simply perpetrated another of her ghastly pleasantries. The woman was perplexed, naturally, but it was evidently the sight of her work, and not the work itself, that pained her. Don't cut up so rough, Zeke. Please don't!" She went on. I'm very fond of you. You know that. But I detest the odor of the shop, and it is so easy for both of us to escape it. He shrank as if she had struck him. Instinctively he must have remembered the cotton mill from which he took her. A man rarely understands a woman's faculty for forgetting, that is to say, no man of his class does. Doesn't it seem a bit selfish to you, she went on, to object to my earning nearly three times what you can, and so easily and prettily? I wanted you to be happy with what I could give you. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not. I used to fib about it. It is too late. Your notions are so queer. I suppose it is queer to love one woman, and to love her so that laboring for her is happiness. I suppose you do find me a queer chap, because I am not willing that my wife, flesh of my flesh, should flaunt herself, dressed to excite the admiration of other men, all for $50 a week. See here, Zeke, you're making too much of this. If it is the separation you can't stand, why come, too? I'll soon be getting my hundred a week and more. That is enough for both of us. You can be with me if that is what you mind. If that is what I mind, you know better than that. Am I such a cur, that you think, if there were no other reason I'd pose before the world as the husband of a woman who owes nothing to him, as if I were, she interrupted him sharply. What odds does it make, tell me, which of us earns the money? To have it is the only important thing. The man straightened up and squared his broad shoulders. A strange change came over him. He laid his heavy hand on her shoulder, and for the first time he spoke with a disregard for self-control, although he did not raise his voice. Look at me, Dora, and be sure I mean what I say. Leave me today, and don't you ever come back to me. It may kill me to live without you. Well, better that than the other. I married you to live with you, not merely to have you. I have been a faithful husband to you. I shall remain that while I live. I never denied you anything I could get for you. But this I will not put up with. I thought you loved me, even if you were sometimes vain and now and then cruel. If you're ill, if you disappoint yourself, I'll be ready to take care of you, as I promised. But don't never dare to come back to me otherwise, unless you're in want and homeless, unless you can't live, but by the labor of my hands. I'll never sleep under the same roof with you again. Never. What nonsense, Zeke. Of course I'll come back. You won't turn me away. I only want to see a little of the world, to get a few of the things you can't give me. No blame to you, either. He did not seem to hear her. Almost as if speaking to himself he went on. I feared for some time you didn't love me. I didn't want to believe it. I was a coward. I shut my eyes. I took what you gave me. I dare not think of this, which has come to me. I dare not. God punishes idolatry, and he has punished mine. Be sure you're not making a mistake, Dora. There may be other men will admire you, my girl. Will any of them love you as I do? There's never a minute I'm not conscious of you, sleeping or waking. Think again, Dora, before you leave me. I can't, Zeke. I signed a contract. I wouldn't reconsider if I wanted to. It's just seven minutes to train time. Kiss me. There's a dear lad. And don't row on any more. She raised herself on tiptoes and approached her red lips to his face. Lips of an intense color to go with the marked powder of the rest of the face, and which surely were never offered to him in vain before. But he was beyond their seduction at last. You've decided, he said. Of course. All right. Goodbye, then. You promised to cleave to me through thick and thin till death did us part. I have no halfway business, and he turned on his heel. And without looking back, as he pushed his way through the crowd, which chatted and fussed and never even noted the passing of a broken heart. The pretty creature watched him out of sight. There was a humorous pout on her lips. But she seemed so sure of her man. He would come back, of course, when she called him, if she ever did. Probably she liked him better at that moment than she had liked him in two years. He had opposed her. He had defied her power over him. He had once more become a man to conquer, if she ever had the time. And just now there was something more important, that train. It was three minutes to the scheduled time. As he disappeared into the crowd, she drew a breath of relief and hurried out of the waiting room and pushed her way to the platform, along which she hurried to the parlor car, where she seated herself comfortably as if no man with a broken life had been set down that day against her record. To be sure, she could not quite rid herself of thoughts of his face. But the recollection rather flattered her, and did not, in the least, prevent her noticing the looks of admiration, with which two men on the opposite side of the car were regarding her. Once or twice she glanced out of the window, apparently alternately expecting and dreading to see her stalwart husband come sprinting down the platform for the kiss he had refused. He didn't come. She was relieved as the train started. Yet she hated to feel he could really let her go like that. She never guessed at the depth of suffering she had brought him. How could she appreciate what she could never feel? She never dreamed that as the train pulled out into the storm he stood at the end of the station and watched it slowly round the curve under the bridge and pass out of sight. No one was near him to see him turn aside and rest his arms against the brick wall, to bury his face in them and sob like a child, utterly oblivious of the storm that beat upon him. And he sat down. Come on, yelled the youngster, where's the clack? And he began to applaud furiously. Oh, if there is a clack, the rest of us don't need to exert ourselves, said the lawyer indolently. But I say, asked the youngster, after the journalist had made his best bow, I am disappointed. Was that all? My goodness, commented the doctor as he lighted a fresh cigar. Isn't that enough? Not for me, replied the youngster. I want to know about her debut. Was she a success? Of course, answered the journalist. That sort always is. And I want to know, insisted the youngster, what became of him? Why, ejaculated the sculpture, of course, he cut his big brown throat. Not a bit of it, said the critic. He probably went up to New York and hung around the stage door, until she called the police and had him arrested as a common nuisance, added the lawyer. I'll bet my microscope he didn't, laughed the doctor. And you won't lose your lens, replied the journalist. He never did a blooming thing. That is, he didn't, if he existed. Oh, my eyes, said the youngster. I am disappointed again. I thought that was a Simon Pure newspaper yarn. One of your reporters dodges. Real journalists. She is true enough, answered the journalist. And her feet are true, and so is her red hair, and lest she is a liar, and most actresses are. So is he and her origin. But as for the way she cut him out? Well, I had to make that up. It is better than any of the six tales, she told as many interviewers, in strict secrecy, in the days when she was collecting hearts and jewels and midnight suppers in New York. Is she still there, asked the youngster? Because if she is, I'll go back and take a look at Dora Myself after the war. Well, a youngster laughed the journalist. It will have to be after the war, as you will probably have to go to Bolin to find her. That's all right, retorted the youngster. I am going with the Allied armies. We all jumped up. No, cried the divorcee. No. But I am. Where's the good of keeping it secret? I enlisted the day I went to Paris the first time. So did the doctor. So did the critic. And so did he, the innocent-looking old blackard. And he seized the journalist by both shoulders and shook him well. He thought we wouldn't find out. Oh, well, said the journalist. When one has seen three wars, one may as well see one more. This will surely be my last. Anyway, cried the youngster. We'll see it all round. The doctor in the field ambulance, me in the air. The critic is going to lug litters. And as for the journalist, well, I'll bet it's secret service for him. Oh, I know you are not going to tell. But I saw you coming out of the English embassy. And I'll bet my machine you've a ticket to London. And a letter to the chief in your pocket. Better way, said the critic. What I tell you? What I tell you? He speaks every God-blessed language going. And if it wasn't that, he'd tell fast enough. Never mind, said the trained nurse, so that he goes somewhere with the rest of us. You, you exclaimed the divorcee? Why not? I was trained for this sort of thing. This is my chance. And the rest of us? The doctor intervened. See here, this is 48 hours or more earlier than I meant this matter to come up. I might have known the youngster could not hold his tongue. I've been bursting for three days. Well, you've burst now, and I hope you are content. There is nothing to worry about, yet. We fellows are leaving September 1st. The roads are all clear, and it was my idea that we should all start for Paris together early next Tuesday morning. I don't know what the rest of you want to do, but I advise you, turning to divorcee, to go back to the States. You would not be a bit of good here. You may be there. You were quite right, she replied, sadly. I'd be worse than no good. I'd need first aid at the first shot. I'm going with her, said the sculpture. I'd be more useless than she would, and he turned a questioning look at the lawyer. I must go back. I have business to attend to. Anyways, I'd be in encumbrance here. I may be useful there. Who knows? As for me, everyone knew what I proposed to do, and that left everyone accounted for except the violinist. He had been in his favourite attitude by the tree, just as he had been on that evening when it had been proposed to tell stories, gazing first at one, then at the other, as the hurried conversation went on. Well, he said, finding all eyes turned on him. I am going to London with the journalist, if he's really going. All right, I am, was the reply. And from London, I shall go to St. Petersburg. I have a dream that out of all this something may happen to Poland. If it does, I propose to be there. I'll be no good at holding a gun. I could never fire one. But if by some miracle there comes out of this any chance for the fair land of Poland to crawl out, or be dragged out, from under the feet of the invader, well, I'll go home, and, and, he hesitated, and grow up with the country shot of the youngster, bully for you. I may only go back to fiddle over the ruins, but who knows? At all events, I'll go back and carry with me all that your country has done for three generations of my family. They'll need it. Well, said the doctor, that is all settled. Enough for tonight. We'll still have one or two, and maybe three days left together. Let us make the most of them. They will never come again. And to think what a lovely summer we had planned side the divorcee. Tush, ejaculated the doctor. We had a lovely time all last year. As for this summer, I imagine that it has been far finer than what we planned. Anyway, let us be thankful that it was this summer that we all found one another again. Better go to bed, cried the critic. The doctor is getting sentimental. A bad sign in an army surgeon. I don't know, remarked the trained nurse. I have seen those that were more sentimental than the journalist, and none the worse for it. End of The Journalist's Story, part two, recording by Kirby Bonds. Section 12 of Told in a French Garden. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Told in a French Garden by Mildred Aldrich. Chapter nine, part one, The Violinist's Story, The Soul of the Song, The Tale of a Fiancé. On Saturday most of the men made a run into Paris. It had finally been decided as best that if all went well we should leave for Paris sometime the next day. There were steamer tickets to attend to. There were certain valuables to be taken up to the bank. The divorcee had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in order that we might start with as little luggage as possible. So both chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage and orders to wait there. The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of dismantling the house. The unexpected end of our summer had come. It was sad, but I imagine none of us were sorry under the circumstances to move on. It was nearly dinner time when the cars came back, almost together, and we were surprised to see the doctor going out to the servants' quarters instead of joining us as he usually did. In fact, we did not see him until we went into the dining room for dinner. As he came to the head of the table, he said, my good people, we will serve ourselves as best we can with the cook's aid. We have no waitress tonight, but it is our last dinner. That camp under marching orders cannot fuss over trifles. Where is Angile? asked the divorcee. Is she ill? And she turned to the door. Come back, said the doctor sharply. You can't help her now. Better leave her alone. As if by instinct we all knew what had happened. Who brought the news? Someone asked. They gave it to me at the merry as I passed, replied the doctor. In the guard chanpetre told me what the envelope contained. She fell at Chaleroi. Pour Angile, exclaimed the trained nurse. Are you sure I could not help her? Sure, said the doctor. She took it as a French woman should. She snatched the baby from its cradle and held it a moment close to her face. Then she lifted it above her head in both hands and said, almost without a choke in her throat, viva la France, con me me, and dropped. I put them on the bed together, she and the boy. She was crying like a good one when I left her. She's all right. Poor child, and that tiny baby, exclaimed the divorcee, wiping her eyes. Fudge, said the doctor. She is the widow of a hero and the mother of the hero's son. Considering what life is, that is to be one of the elect of fate. She'll go through life with a halo round her head. And like most of the French women I have seen, she'll wear it like a crown. It becomes us in the same spirit to partake of the food before us. This life is a wonderful spectacle. If you saw an episode like that in a drama, at the theatre, you would all cheer like mad. We knew he was right. But the youngster could not help adding. That's twice two days running that the doctor has told us a story out of his turn, and both times he outraged the consign, for both times it was a war story. That seemed to break the ice. We talked more or less war during dinner, but this time there were no disputes. Well, I think we were glad when the cook trotted in with the trays, and with our elbows on the table, we turned toward the violinist, who leaned against the high back of his chair, and with his long white hands resting on the carved arms, and his eyes on the ceiling, an attitude he did not change during the narrative, began. It was in the early 80s that I returned from Germany to my native land, and settled to myself in my violin in the city of my birth. I was not rich as my countrymen judge wealth, but in my own estimation I was well to do. I had enough to live without labour, and was therefore able to devote myself to my art without considering too closely the recompense. In addition to that I was still young. I had more love for my chosen mistress, music, than the goddess had for me, for while she accepted my worship with indulgence, she wasted fewer gifts on me, than fell to the lot of many a less faithful follower. Still I was happy and content in my love for her, and only needed her to keep me so, until, a year after my return, I met one woman, loved her, and begged her to share with my music my heart and its adoration. That satisfied her since, in her own love for the same art, she used to assure me that she possessed by proxy that other half of myself, which I still dedicated to the muse. Perhaps it was the vibrant spirit of this woman, which seemed musical to me, and which I so ardently loved, for she appeared to have a veritable, violent soul. Her face was often the medium, through which I saw the spirit of the music I was playing. As it sang in gladness, sobbed in sadness, thrilled in passion along the strings of my amati, I knew that I never played so well as when her face was before me. I felt that if ever I approached my dreams in achievement, it would be her soul that inspired me, so like was she in my fancy to a musical instrument, that I used to tell her when the wind swept across her burnished hair, that the air was full of melody. And when she looked especially ethereal, as she did at times, I would catch her in my arms and bid her tell me on peril of her life what song was hidden in her heart that I might teach it to my violin and die great. Yet remarkable, as it seems to me still, the spirit of music that surely dwelt within her dwelt there a dumb prisoner. It had no audible voice, though I was not alone in feeling its presence in her eyes, on her lips, in her spiritual charm. She had a voice that was melody itself, yet she never sang. I always fancied her hands or a musician's hands, yet she never played. This was the more singular, as her mother had been a great singer, and her father, while he had never risen above the desk of chef d'Orchestra in a local playhouse, was no mean musician. Often when the charm of her spirit was on me, I would pretend to weave a spell about her and conjure the spirit that was imprisoned in the heart that was mine, to come forth from the shrine he was so impudently usurping. Ah, those were the days of my youth. We had been betrothed about a brief time when Rodriguez, for some seasons a European celebrity, made his first appearance in our city. I had heard most of the great violinists of that time, had known some of them well, had played with many of them, as I did later with Rodriguez, but I had never chanced to see or hear him. His fame had, however, preceded him. The newspapers were full of him, faster even than the tales of his genius, and traveled the tales of his follies, tales that out dawn-wound the famous rake of tradition. However little credence one gives to such reports, mad stories of a scandalous nature, these repeated episodes of excesses only tolerated in the conspicuous, due-color one's expectations. I suppose that, being young, I expected to see a man whose face would bear the brand of his errors, as well as the stamp of his genius. That was not Rodriguez's fate. Whatever the temperamental struggle had been, he was take him for all in all, the least disappointing famous man that my experience had ever shown me. He was more virile than handsome, and no more aesthetic to look at than he was ascetic. At that time he was on the sunny side of forty, and not yet at the zenith of his great career. His face was fine, manly, and sympathetic. His brow was broad, his eyes deep-set and widely spaced, but very heavy-litted. The mouth and chin were, I must own, too delicate and sensitive for the rest of the face. His dark hair, young as he was, had streaks of gray. Embaring, he was so erect, so sufficient, that he seemed taller than he was. If he had the vanity, which so often goes with his kind of temperament, it was most cleverly concealed. Safe in the dignified conscientiousness of his unquestioned gifts, secure in his achievements, he had a winning gentleness and an engaging manner difficult to resist. But for a singular magnetic light in his eyes, which belied the calm of his bearing, when he chanced to raise the heavy lids full on one, they usually drooped a little, but for a sensitive quiver along the two full lips, as if they still trembled from the caress of genius, the royal accolade of greatness. He might have looked to me, as he did to many, more the diplomat than the artist. It would be useless for me to analyze his command of his instrument. I could not. It would be superfluous for me to recount his triumphs. They are too recent to have been forgotten. But tasks have, moreover, been done better than I could do either. This I can do, however, bear witness to the glowing wings of hope, of longing, of aspiration, which his singing violin went to hearts, oppressed by the commonplace everyday cares, to the moments of courage, a reawakened endeavor that he inspired in his fellow men, to the marvellous magnetism of his playing, which seemed for the moment to restore to a soul-wary world its illusions, and to strike off the fetters of despondency, which bind mortality to earth. It was not alone the musically intelligent who felt this, for his playing had a universal appeal. Thoreau musicians marveled at and envied him in his mastery of the details of his art, but it seemed to me that those who knew least of its technique were equally open to his influence. I don't presume to explain this. I merely record it. There were those who analyzed the fact and explained it on the ground of animal magnetism. For myself I only know that as the magic music, which Honald Sincreff played in the streets of Hamlin, whispered in the ears of little children, words of promise, of happiness, of comfort, that none others could hear. So to the emotional heart, Rodriguez's violin spoke a special message. The man who sets the faces of the throng upward, and lights their eyes with the magic fire of hope, has surely not lived in vain. Whatever personal offerings he may have made on the altar of his genius to keep alive the eternal spark, it cannot be denied that art has fulfilled some part of its mission on earth, if but for one hour, thousands, marshaled by its music, as the children of Israel by the pillar of flame, have looked above the dull atmosphere where pain and loss and sorrow are, to feel in themselves that divine longing, which is ecstasy, that soaring of the spirit which, and casting off fear and rising above doubt, can cry out in joy. Oh, blessed spark of hope, this soul which can so rise above sorrow, so mount above the body must be immortal, this which can so cast off care cannot die. All the great acts of life and all the great arts are purely emotional. I know that modern cults deny this and work to see everything gauged by reason, but thus far musicians and painters, preachers and orators, all approach their goal by the road to emotions, if they hope to win the big world. Patriotism, fidelity, love of country, like love of woman, our emotions, and it would puzzle logicians, I am afraid, to be sure that these emotions, at times sublime, might not be as sensual as some of Rodriguez's critics found his music. The series of concerts he gave was very exhausting to me, owing to the novelty of some of his programs and the constant rehearsals, the final concert found me quite worn out. During the latter part of the evening, I had been too weary to even raise my eyes to the balcony in front of me, where, from my position among the first violins, I could see the fair face of my beloved. That evening had been a great triumph, and when it was all over, the audience was quite mad with enthusiasm. It was one of Rodriguez's inviolable rules to play a program exactly as announced and never to add to it. In the month he had been in town, the public had learned how impossible it was to tempt him away from his rule, but Americans are persistent. Again and again he had mounted the steps to the platform and calmly bowed his thanks, while long-drawn cheers surged through the noise of hand clapping, as strains on the brass buoy up the melody. I lost count of the number of times he had ascended and descended the little flight of steps, which led behind a screen from the artist's room to the stage. When having turned in my seat to watch him, as he came up and bowed and walked off again, I saw him as he stood behind the screen, gazing directly over our heads, suddenly raised his violin to his ear and slowly draw the bow across the strings. Almost before we could realize what had happened, he crossed the stage, stepped to his stand and drew his bow downward. The applause died sharply on the crest of a crescendo and left the air trembling. There was a sudden hush, a few sank back in their seats, but most of them remained standing where they were, just as we behind him were suddenly fixed in our positions. I have since heard a deal of argument as to the use and power of music as the voice of thought. I was not then, and I am not now, of that school which holds music to be a medium to transmit anything but musical ideas. So of the effect of Rodriguez's music on my mind, or the possibility that, for some occult reason, I was for the moment on rapport with him, as after events forced me to believe, I shall enter into no discussion. I am merely going to record to the best of my ability my thoughts as I remember them. I no more presumed to explain why they came to me than I do to analyze my trust in immortality. As he drew his bow downward, as the first chord filled my ears, everything else faded away. There was the nearest prelude, and then the theme which appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, again and again, to be woven about every emotion that once developed and dominated me. I seemed at first to hear its melody in the fresh morning air, where it soared upward above the gentle breezes, mingling in harmony with the mantons of the birds and the softly rustling trees. Hopeful as youth, careless as the wind, it sang in gladness and in trust. Then I heard the same melody throb under the noonday glow of summer. Its tone was broadened and sweetened, but still brave and pure, when all else in nature, save its clear voice, seemed sensuous. I saw gardens in a riot of color, felt love at its passionate consummation. Air the light seemed to fade slowly towards the sunset hour. The world was still pulsing with color, but the gray of twilight was slowly unwrapping it. Then the simple melody, soared above the day's peacefulest hour, firm in promise on the hushed air, in the mystery of night which followed, when black clouds snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the silence had something of terror, even for the brave, that same steadfast, loving hopeful theme moved on, consoling his trust in immortality. Through youth to maturity and onto age, it sang with the same, re-iterant, subduing infallible loyalty, the crystallized melody of all that is spiritual in love, an adoration in passion. As it died away into the distance, as if its spirit barely audible were translated to the far-off heavenly host, I strange my hearing to catch that last fine sound that passed so gently one could not be quite sure where it in silence meant, and for the first and last time in my life I had known all that a violin can do. For a moment the hush was wonderful. Rodriguez stood like a statue. His bow still touched the strings, yet there was no sound that one could hear, though his own fine head was still bent as though he too listened. He gently dropped his bow, he smiled. We all came back to earth together. Then such a scene followed as Becker's description, but he passed hardly out of sight, and no amount of tumult could induce him to even show himself again. Slowly reluctantly the audience dispersed, still murmuring. The musicians picked up their traps and wildly or soberly according to their temperaments began to dispute. It was everywhere the same topic. The unknown work that Rodriguez had so marvellously played. As for me as he played, I seemed to be in the very heart of Melody, singing it too as his violin sang it. As the song soared upward my heart was filled with longing, with pain, with joy, with regret. As it gradually died into silence a mist seemed to pass from before my eyes, and I became suddenly conscious of the sweet face of my beloved, growing more and more distinct, until as the last note died away I was fully conscious that the music had passed between us, like a cloud, to obscure my sight utterly and to recede it slowly leaving her face before me. I knew afterward that to all appearances I had been gazing directly into her face all the time. Through it all I had a vague sense that what he played was not new to me. It seemed like something I had long known and tried to say but could not. In a days I left the stage. Silently I put my violin in its case, pulled on my great coat, and turned up the collar about my face. I was sure I was haggard and I did not wish to remark it. I knew that I should find her waiting in the corridor with her father. Just as I passed out of the artist's room I was surprised to see Rodriguez standing there in conversation with her and her father. He was, however, just leaving them and did not see me. I knew that her father had known him in Vienna when the now great violinist was Amir Ladd and I had heard that he forgot no one so the sight gave me a merely momentary surprise. As I joined her and we stepped out into the night together I could not help wondering if Rodriguez had noticed her sensitive violin face. As I tried to get a look into her eyes I remembered afterward that so rapt was I in my own emotions and so sure was I of her sympathy that I neither noted nor asked how the music had affected her. It was bitterly cold, we walked briskly and parted at the door. As I look back I realize how much an egoist an emotional man can be and in good faith be unconscious of it. The day after the concert was Saturday, a day on which I rarely saw her as it was my habit to spend all Sunday with her. I was always somewhat an epicure in my moral nature. I liked to pet my inclinations as I have seen good livers wet their appetites by self-denial. All day I was restless and depressed. At the piano with my violin in my hand it was still that same haunting melody that bewitched my fingers. Whatever I assayed led me unconsciously back to the same theme and whenever that motif fell from my fingers her face appeared before my eyes so distinctly that I would have to dash my hand across them to wipe away the impression that it was the real face that was before me. Afterward when I was calmer I knew that this was nothing singular since whether I had ever reflected on the fact or not she was rarely from my mind. As I played that melody over and over again it puzzled me more and more. I could find nowhere within my memory anything that even reminded me of it. Yet I was vaguely familiar with it. End of The Violinist's Story, Part 1 Section 13 of Tolled in a French Garden This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Tolled in a French Garden by Mildred Aldrich Chapter 9, Part 2 The Violinist's Story The Soul of the Song The Tale of a Fiancé When evening came on I was more restless than ever. By nine o'clock I had found it impossible to bear longer with my own company and I started out. I had no destination something impelled me toward the opera house though I cared little for opera as a rule that is opera as we have it in America fashionable and Philistine. I entered the auditorium the opera was foused just in season to hear the last half of the third act. As the sensuous, passionate music swelled in the sultry air of the dark garden at Nuremberg I listened, moved by it, as I always am when I cannot see the overdressed lady-like margarite that goes a-starring in America. My eyes wandered restlessly over the audience suddenly there was a rushing like the surging of waters in my ears which drowned the music and I saw Rodriguez sitting carelessly in the front of a stage box his eyes were fixed on me and I thought there was an expression of relief in them. Shocked that the unexpected sight of the man should have such an effect on me I pulled myself together with an effort. The sound of the waters receded the music rushed back leaving me amazed at a condition in myself which should have rendered me so susceptible in some subconscious way to the undoubted magnetism of the man whose violin had so affected me the night before and so haunted me all day and in regard to whose composition I had an ill-defined but insistent theory which would intrude into my mind. In vain I turned my eyes to the stage I could not forget his presence every few minutes my glance as if drawn by a magnet would turn in his direction and as often as that happened whether he were leaning back to speak to someone hidden by the curtain or watching the house or listening intently to the music I never failed to find that his eyes met mine I sat through the next act in this condition then I could stand it no longer I felt that I might end by making myself objectionable and that after all it was far wiser to be safe at home than sitting in the theatre where I occupied myself in staring at but one person I made my way slowly up the aisle and into the foyer and had nearly reached the outer lobby when I suddenly felt sure that he was near I looked up yes there he was and he was looking me directly in the face again an odd smile came into his eyes he nodded to me as he approached and with a quaint shake of the head said I just made a wager with myself I bet that if I encountered you in the lobby without actually seeking you and you saw me I'd speak to you and ask a favour of you I am going to win that wager he did not seem to expect me to answer him he simply turned beside me thrust his arm carelessly through mine and moved with me toward the exit let us step outside a moment he said it was easy to understand why the hero of the night before could not hope to pass unnoted he stepped into the street it was a moonlit night I remember that distinctly he lighted his cigarette and held his case toward me I shook my head I had no desire to smoke we walked a few steps together in silence before he said I am trying to frame a most unusual request so that it may not seem too fantastic to you it is more difficult than riding a fugue the truth is I have gotten myself into a bit of a fix and I want to guard against its turning into something worse than that I need some man's assistance to extricate myself I probably looked alarmed those forebears of mine will intrude when I am taken by surprise he saw it and said quickly it is nothing that a man willing to be of service to me need bark at nothing in fact that a chivalrous man would not be glad to do you may not think very well of me afterward but be sure you will never regret the act I wasn't so in need of a friend there was none at hand if such as I ever have friends suddenly I saw you I remembered your violin as I heard it behind me last night in a muddy I fancy I nodded a scent a beautiful instrument I may someday ask you to let me try it you and I can never be quite strangers after tonight he paused, pounded the sidewalk with his stick impatiently as if the long preamble made him as nervous as it did me then looking me in the face he said rapidly this is it when I leave the box after the next act do you follow me stay by me no matter what happens, stick to me even though I ask you to leave me so long as there is anyone with me do more stay by me until in your room or mine you and I sit down together and well I will explain what must until then seem either mad or ridiculous is that clear I assured him that it was agreed then he said by this time we were back at the door the whole thing had not taken five minutes we re-entered the theater and walked hurriedly through the lobby to the foyer as we were about to separate he laid a hand on either of my shoulders and with a whimsical smile said I'll dare swear I shall try to give you the slip the smile died on his lips it never reached his eyes don't let me do it after the next act then and with a wave of his hand he disappeared I thought I was ridiculous enough when he had gone and I realized that I had promised to follow this man I did not know where I did not know with whom I did not know why it was useless for me to go back into the auditorium I could not listen to the music in spite of myself I kept approaching the entrance opposite the box and peering through the glass like a detective I knew I was afraid that he would keep his word and try to give me the slip I never asked myself what difference it would make to me if he did I simply took up the strange unexplained task he had given me as if it were to me a matter of life or death even before the curtain fell I had hurried round the house and placed myself with my back to the door so that I could not miss him as he passed and yet had no appearance of watching him it was well that I did for in an instant the door opened he came out and passed me quickly followed by a slender woman in a straight wrap that fell from her head to the ground and the domino like hood which completely concealed her face as he drew her hand through his arm he looked back at me over his shoulder his eyes met mine they seemed to say is it you old true penny but he merely bent his head courteously and with his lips said comma I felt sure that he shrugged his shoulders resignedly as he saw that I kept my word and followed at the door he found his carriage he assisted his companion in then in the gentlest manner he said in my ear as he stood aside for me to enter in with you my honor is saved but repentance dogs its heels to the lady he said this is the friend whom you are kind enough to permit me to ask for supper she made no reply I uncovered my head to salute her murmuring some vague phrase of thanks which was I am sure inaudible then Rodriguez followed and took his place beside me on the front seat as the door banged I could have sworn that the lady whose face was concealed behind the falling lace of her hood as if by a mask spoke he thought so too for he leaned forward as if to catch the words evidently we were mistaken for he received no response he murmured an oath against the pavements and the noise and turned a smiling face to me and I why I smiled back as we rattled over the pavings through the lighted streets no one spoke the lady leaned back in her corner opposite her Rodriguez hummed salve demora and I beside him sat strangely confused in an arc still as if in a dream I had not even noted the direction we were taking until I found that we had stopped in front of a french restaurant one of the few bohemian resorts at the town boasted Rodriguez leaped out assisted the lady and I followed just as we reached the top of the stairs as I was about to follow them into one of the small supper rooms like a flash as if I was suddenly waking from a dream into conscious with exactly the same sensation I had experienced many and many a morning when struggling back to life from sleep I realized that the slender figure before me was as familiar as my own hand as the door closed behind us I called her by name and my voice startled even myself she threw back the hood of her cape and faced me Rodriguez had heard too he wheeled quickly taught us as nearly broken from his self-control as a man so sure of himself could be under the flash of our eyes the color surged up painfully in her pale face there was much the same expression in our eyes I fancy Rodriguez and mine but I felt that it was at his face she gazed I have never known how far it is given to woman to penetrate the mysteries of human nature for she is gifted it seems to me with a dissimulation in which she wraps herself as with an impenetrable veil of outward innocence and ignorance from our less acute perception and router knowledge there were speeches enough that it would have become a man in my position to make I knew them all but I said nothing some instinct saved me some vague foreknowledge made me feel I knew not why that there was really nothing for me to say at that moment for fully a minute none of us moved Rodriguez recovered himself first I cannot describe the peculiar expression of his eyes as he slowly turned them from her face to mine so bound up was he in himself that I was confident that he did not yet suspect more than that she and I had met before what was in her mind I did not guess he composedly crossed to her he gently unfastened her heavy wrap carefully lifted it from her shoulders he pushed a high-backed chair toward her and with a smile forced her to sit she did look dangerously white she sank into it and weirdly leaned her pretty head back as if for support and I noticed that her slender hands as they grasped either arm of the chair trembled in spite of the grip she took to steady herself I felt her whole body vibrate as a violin vibrates for a moment after the bow leaves the strings it is a strange chance that you too should know each other he said and very well too if I may judge from your manner of addressing her I moved to a place behind her chair and laid my hand on it this lady is my affianced wife I replied he did not change color for an instant not a muscle moved he did not stir a step from his place before the fire where he stood with his gaze fixed on her face for one instant he turned his widely opened eyes on me brief as the glance was I felt it was critical then his lids quivered and rubed completely over his eyes absolutely veiling the whole man and to my amazement he laughed aloud but even as he did so he spread his hands quickly toward us as if to apologize and ghastly as the comment was grotesque even as it all seemed I think we both understood he hardly needed to say pardon me as he quickly recovered his stronghold on himself the next instant he was again standing erect before the fire with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his voice was absolutely calm as he turned toward me and said with a smile under his half lowered heavy lids I promised you when I asked you to accompany me that before we slept tonight I would explain my singular request I hardly thought that I should have to do it whether I would or not under these circumstances indeed it appears that you have the right to demand of me the explanation I so flippantly offered you an hour ago I am bound to own that had I dreamed that you knew this lady that a relation so intimate existed between you I should surely never have done of my own will this which fate has presumed to do for me what can I say to you too that will help or mend this to you my fellow musician who were willing to stand my friend need without question and to the woman you love and to whom I owe an eternal debt that we may have no doubts of one another in the future I cannot make excuse as well even if I have the right to I only hope we are all three so constituted that we may be able to feel that for a little we have been outside common causes and common results and that you may listen to an explanation which may seem strange pardon me and part from me without resentment being sure that I shall suffer and yet be glad the face against the high-backed chair was very pale she closed her eyes his gaze was on her he marked the change I was sure he thrust his hands still deeper into his pockets as if to brace himself and went on last night her pure eyes looked into mine I had seen her face before me night after night never dreaming who she was I had always played to her and it had seemed to me at times as if the music I made was in her face I could see nothing else I seemed to be looking through her amber eyes down down into her deep beautiful soul and my soul reached out toward her with the sudden knowledge of what manhood might have been had all womanhood been pure of what life might have been with one who could know no sin it was only her face that I saw as I stood waiting the end of the applause I seemed to be gazing between her glorious eyes as to tell the truth I had more than once gazed in my dreams in the past month I had already written the song that seeing her face had sung in my heart it was with an irresistible longing an impulse stronger than my will to say to her just what her face had said to me though she might never know it was said to her that I went back to the stage almost before I realized it I was there I felt the vibrant soul of my violin as I laid my cheek against it and I saw the same spirit tremble behind the eyes of that fair face above me as one sees a reflection tremble under the wind rippled water the first chord throbbed on the air in response to it then I played what she had unconsciously inspired in me it was in her eyes were never swerving immortal loyalty shown that I read the deathless theme out of her nature came the inspiration to her belongs the honor I know, no one better, that as I played last night I shall never play again just as I realized that what I played last night my own nature could never of itself have created it was she who spoke it was not I let him who dares try to explain that miracle she rose from her chair and moved toward him and as she moved she swayed pitifully he did not stir it was I who caught her as she stumbled and I held her close in my arms after a moment she relaxed a little and her head drooped weirdly on my shoulder he lowered his lids and I felt that every nerve in his well-controlled body quivered with resentment he motioned to entreat her to sit down again she shook her head and when he went on again he for the first time addressed himself directly to her it was chance that set you across my path last night you and your father I recognized him at once I knew your mother well I can remember the day on which you were born I was a lad then your mother was one of my idols my child I fiddled for you in your cradle at the moment I realized who you were you were so much a part of my music that you only appealed to me through that but when I left you I carried a consciousness of you with me that was more tangible I had held your hand in mine I feel it there still I went directly to my room alone I sat down immediately to transcribe as much of what I had played as possible while it was fresh in my mind as I wrote I was alone with you but as the spirit of the music was imprisoned I knew that you were becoming more and more a material presence to me when I slept it was to dream of you again but oh the difference I should have been grateful to you for the inspiration that you had been to me and I was but it had served its purpose they tell me I never played like that before I feel I never shall again but the end of an emotion is never in the spirit with me I started out this afternoon to find you oblivious of the fact that I should have left town I had the audacity to tell myself that I should be a cad if I departed without thanking the sweet daughter of your mother for her share and making me great I had the presumption to believe in myself it seemed natural enough to your good father that a whimsical genius as he called me should be allowed the caprice of even tardily looking up his boyhoods acquaintance he received me nobly was proud that you should see I remembered him and simply made no secret of it though I knew what you had seemed to me I little realized that my child of true fine musical spirits had a nature strong like a strad fine clear true matchless as well as inspiring I spent a beautiful afternoon with you I cannot better explain than by saying that to me it was like such a day as I have sometimes had with my violin I call them holy days and God knows I try to keep them holy though after too many of them follow a saint Michael and the dragon tussle and I mean no discredit to the archangel either the honest old father proud to trust his daughter to me in his kind heart he always considered me a most maligned man went off to the play in his Saturday night club he told me that we were alone together it was then that I began to think that I could probably play on her nature as I did on my violin and then with the players frenzy to realize that I have been doing it from the first that we had vibrated in harmony like two ends of a chord then I saw no more the spirit behind her eyes I saw only the beautiful face in which the color came and went the burnished hair so full of golden lights on which I longed to lay my hand the sensitive red lips and the angel and the demon rose up within me and looked one another in the face and I heard the one fling the truth at the other which even the devil no longer cared to deny I forgive me in his egoism of self-analysis and open confession I am sure he did not realize how far he was going until she buried her face in her hands then he stepped across the room and stood before me as she rested her face in her hands against my breast it was not especially clever to last struggle against myself I had never known such a woman before I suppose if I had I should have tortured her to death to strike new codes out of her nature and wept at my work I had not the courage to tear myself abruptly away I suggested an hour of the opera I gave her the public as a protector and they sang foust it was then that knowing myself so well I looked out into the auditorium and saw you it was Providence that put you in my way I thought it was accident I am sure I need say no more I shook my head he leaned over her a moment he gently took her hands from her face her eyelids trembled for one brief moment she opened her eyes to his you have given me one sweet day he murmured some part of your soul has called its music out of mine that offspring of a miraculous sympathy will live immortal when all else of our two lives is forgotten remember today as a dream and me as a shadow there he stopped abruptly I felt her head fall forward she had swunged together we looked into the beautiful colorless face I loved music as I loved light I was an artist myself a great musician and this man was to me the greatest achievement of art and living I did not refuse the hand he held out I buried mine in it I did not smile nor mistrust nor misunderstand the tears in his eyes nor despise him because I knew they would soon enough be dry I did not doubt his sincerity when he said I have never done so bitter a thing as say goodbye to this though I know but too well such are not for me he bent over her as if he would take her in his arms she was unconscious I felt tempted to put her there I knew I loved her as he could never love yet I pitied him for more for that tell her he whispered tell her when she shall have forgotten this as I hope she will that for this last hour at least I loved her that losing her I am liable to love her long so we shall never meet again I shall never cease to be grateful to the Providence that threw you in my way after tonight tonight I could curse it and my conscience with a right goodwill with an effort he straightened himself you can afford to forgive me he said for I I envy you with all my heart and he was gone I heard his voice as he spoke to the waiter outside I listened to his step as he descended the stairs he had passed out of our life forever that was years ago she has been long dead he was not to blame if the sunshine that danced in music out of the eyes of the woman I loved never quite came back again we were all the same happy together in our way he was not to blame if it was written in the big book of fate that it should be his heart and not mine that should read the song she bore in her soul something must be sacrificed for art we sacrificed our first illusions and the song he read will sing on whenever Rodriguez is but a tradition end of part two of the violinist's story section fourteen of told in a french garden this is a liverbox recording all liverbox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit liverbox dot org told in a french garden by mildred aldrich epilogue adieu how we went out of the garden the last word had hardly been uttered when the youngster who had been fidgeting leaped to his feet hark he cried we all listened canon he yelled and rushed out to the big gate which he tore open and dashed into the road there was no doubt of it off to the north we could all hear the dull far off booming of artillery we followed into the garden the youngster was in the middle of the road as we joined him he bent toward the ground as if indian like he could hear better hush he said in a whisper as we all began to talk hush I hear horses there was a dead silence and in it we could hear the pounding of the horses hooves in the valley better come in out of the rain said the doctor and we all obeyed once inside the gate the doctor said I reckon it is tomorrow at the latest for us the truth of the matter is I kept something from you this evening the village was drummed out last night as this road is being kept clear no one passed here and as we were ready to start at a moment's notice I made up my mind to have one more evening however we have time enough they can't advance tonight too wet no moon come on into the house he closed and locked the big gate but before we reached the house there was a rush of horsemen in the road then a halt the youngster opened the gate before it was called for two mounted men in khaki rode in stopped short of the sight of the group saluted your house asked one as he slid from a saddle and leaned against his horse mine said the doctor stepping forward you're not proposing to stay here no we're leaving in the morning got any conveyances two touring cars you don't mind my proposing that you go before daylight do you not a bit replied the doctor if it is necessary that's for you to decide said the other officer we are going to set up a battery in this garden awfully sorry you know but it can't be helped the youngster who had remained at the gate came back and whispered in my ear they are coming it is the English still retreating by jove it looks as if they would get to Paris how many are there of you asked the senior officer ten replied the doctor eleven corrected the divorcee i shall take angel in the baby and she started on a run for the garage perhaps said the doctor looking through the open gate with the weary soldiers were beginning to struggle by perhaps it will not be necessary for all of us to go and he went close to the officers and drew his papers from his pocket there was a hurried whispered conversation in which the critic in the journalist joined when it was over the doctor said i understand and returned to our group well good friends he said it really is farewell to the garden the critic and i are going to stay a bit we are needed the youngster will drive one car and the lawyer the other get ready to start by three that will be just before daylight and get into the house all of you you're in the way here everybody obeyed we had less than three hours to get together necessary articles and all the time there was the steady marching of feet in the road where what servants we had were standing with water and such small help as could be offered a tired army and bringing in for first aid such the exhausted men as could be braced up long before we were ready we heard the rumble of the artillery and the low commands of the officers in spite of ourselves we looked out to see the gray things being driven into the gate and down towards the hillside from the divorcee right over the flower beds bothered all don't look out shouted the youngster from his room that's just like a woman be a sport and he dashed down the hall we had just time to see that he had put that uniform on he was going into the big game and he was dressed for the park in a certain sense all the men were when we at last bags in hand gathered in the dining room so we were not surprised to find the nurse in her hospital rig with a white cap covering her hair and the red cross on her arm we knew at once that she was remaining behind the doctor and the critic the cars were at the door and Jill with her baby in her arms was sitting in one come on said the doctor the quicker you were out of this the better and almost without a word like soldiers and orders we were packed into two cars the youngster the lawyer and the two officers stood together with their heads bent over a map better take a side road said the officer until you get near to moe then take the route to send us it will lead you right over the hill into moe then you'll find the route national free cross the mar in there and on into paris by the forest of incense let the lawyer lead said the doctor and be prudent youngster you know where a letter will reach me see that the girls get off safely he shook hands all around the cars shot out of the gate tutored for a passage through the straggling line of tired men in khaki took the first turn to get out of the way and shot down the hill to the river well said the youngster who was driving our car with the violinist beside him I think we behave fine and by jove how I hate to go just now but I have to join day after tomorrow and I suppose it will be a long time before I see anything as exciting as this bother it well you were amazed at the calmness on the yesterday no one replied we were all busy with our own thoughts and with playing the game in silence we cross the first bridge day was just breaking as we mounted the hill on the other side suddenly the youngster put on the break here he said to the violinist take the wheel a moment I must look back just as he spoke there was a tremendous explosion bomb he cried as he got out his glass and standing on the running board looked back they've got it he yelled look we all piled out of the car and ran to the edge of the hill from there we could look back and just see the dear old house standing on the opposite height in its walled garden there was another explosion and a puff of smoke seemed to rise right out of the middle of the garden where the old tree stood under which we had dined so many evenings for a few minutes we stood in silence it was the gentle voice of the violinist that called us back better get on he said we can do nothing now but obey orders and quietly we crawled back and the car started on we did not speak again until we ran up to the gates of Paris and stopped to have our papers examined for the last time then I said with a laugh and only think I did not tell my story at all that source of the youngster what a shame never mind dear you can tell the whole story and I have the end told in a French garden by Mildred Aldrich