Jennette Lee

“ In another minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtzenschuer was driving rapidly through the streets of Munich, on the outside of a common hack, a clumsy parcel balanced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders.
From the windows below, on either side, a face looked out upon the flying streets—a fairy with gentle eyes and a crone with toothless smile.
"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old woman. "Does he think any one at the Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht Dürer than Henriette von Herkomer?" She sniffed a little and drew her folds about her. ”

“ Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only when I play will they glow. They fill the world with light. I sit and play softly—her pen moves fast. She can write with music—music—over her—around—Chopin's music, whispered low—but clear as love. They said once George Sand was clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes her great. It eats the soul. For thee, Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I would not mind. I give thee all. I ask a glance—a touch—a smile when thou art weary—leave to love thee and to make [144] sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel, love—with thy veiled eyes? ”

“ If she had waited—I would not have tarried long, not too long, Aurora. Hadst thou waited—weary of the burden, the sick burden of my complaint! Money—I shall work—Waltzes that the public loves—and pays for. Mazurkas from a torn heart! I shall work—a little while—20,000 francs to set me free! I will die free!
Paris, June 10, 1847.
Strange fortune that besets a man! The 20,000 franc paper is in my hand. I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling and her goodness haunt my gloom. She only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, Scotch lady! With thy heart of gold, thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead! ”

“ Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.
The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You paint like no other," he said quietly.
Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. "They will not call it like Palma, this time—nor like Giorgione, nor Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.
The young man's glance followed them. ”

“ The music stole through his musings and touched him. He lifted his face as the sound swept through the church. The fire and strength of youth had gone from the [74] touch, but something remained—something inevitable and gentle that soothed the spirit and lifted the heart—like the ghost of a soul calling to itself from the past.
Bach started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. It was the choirmaster, small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him blindly.
At the top of the stairs the choirmaster turned and waited for him. "At last we have the honor. Welcome to the greatest master in Germany!" ”

“ Nine years ago he was that—at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap. Seventy-nine—an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now [68] and then. But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power. ”

“ She cares for me, day and night. Her sweet breath! My mother's face is sad in my dreams. I shall not dream when the sun shines warm upon me—in the South——
Majorca, November 16, 1838.
We are alone—two souls—in this island of the sea. The surf beats at night. I lie and listen. Jane Stirling came to see us off. She brought violets—great, swelling English violets. I smell them in the mouldy cloister cells, night and day. This monks' home is cold and bleak. The wind rattles through it, and at night it moans. A chill is on me. When I cough it echoes through my heart. ”

“ The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered in it—hauntingly.
He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Dürer—his work," he said under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for him forever."
[222]
II
For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on the floor of the small, dark studio. ”

“ I love the light. Sweet music waits the light. I will not die. The shadow haunts. [142] But life is strong. Jane's violets on my grave! I will not die.
Paris, March 14, 1839.
Paris—gay, live Paris! The cabs rattle sweetly on the stones. I can breathe now. The funeral dirge will wait. In Marseilles we came upon Nourrit—dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into eternity! I knew it all. The solemn mass ascended for his soul—and high above it all, I spoke in swelling chords—mystery—pain—justice—the fatherland. A requiem for his soul—for Chopin's soul? ”

“ There was the same delicate modelling of lines, the same breadth between the eyes, the long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive lips, and in the eyes the same look of deep melancholy—touched with a subtle, changing, human smile that drew the beholder. It disarmed criticism and provoked it. Except for the halo of mocking and piercing thorns, the living face might have been the pictured one below it. The look of suffering in one was shadowed in the other. ”

“ He looked up imploringly into his father's face—but the hand at his coat-tails restrained him. "I will promise," he whispered, "I want to promise." [42]
"Ja, ja, little son," whispered the father; and he and the fat Bach exchanged smiles across the round head.
Heinrich's glance swept the crowd once more.... "You will not promise? Then let me tell you—" He raised his small hand impressively.
"There shall come of the Bachs one so great that all others shall fade. He only shall be known as Bach—he and his sons; and before him the name of Reinken shall be as dust!" ”

“ Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!" [181]
Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if—if Zarato was not my friend," he said as he turned away.
"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly. ”

“ FREDERIC CHOPIN—A RECORD
[136]
[137]
Paris, October 6, 1837.
It has rained all day. No one has been in. No fantasies have crept to my soul. Nothing to break the ceaseless, monotonous drip, drip, drip on my heart. No one but a garçon from the florist's bringing violets—the great swelling bunch of English violets—Jane Stirling's violets! Heavens, what a woman! I am like her now, in the little mirror on my desk. Merely thinking of her has made me so! The great aquiline nose—the shrewd, canny Scotch look—and the big mouth—alas, that mouth! When it smiles I am enraged. ”

“ Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint [159] popes and dukes—paint gold. But never paint an artist—an artist and a gentleman!"
They laughed merrily and the boat glided on—out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.
"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. ”

“ The count nodded.
"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late——"
Schubert shrugged his shoulders.
"I told the child—you heard—I cannot play it again, that music."
The count laughed lightly.
"As you like." He held out a hand. "Good night, my friend," he said cordially. "You are a strange man."
The grotesque, sensitive face opposite him quivered. The big lips trembled a little as they opened.
"I am not a strange man," said Schubert vehemently. "That music—it was—the devil!"
The count laughed again lightly. He held out his hand. ”

“ The face was turned in shadow. It waited.
"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter. [24]
Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire.
"What does he say of us to-day?"
The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, his face in the shadow still.
The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco." ”

“ The white fingers had dropped on the keys with the lightness of a feather. They rose and flashed and twinkled, and ran along the keyboard with swift, steel-like touch. The door at the end of the room opened softly. A tall man entered. He looked inquiringly at the grotesque green-and-white figure seated before the piano, then his glance met his wife's, and he sank into a big chair by the door, a pleased look on his dark face. The younger child glanced at him shyly. He returned the look and smiled. The child's face brightened. ”

“ The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked.
The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him."
"He has been a great player—in his day," said the choirmaster. The note of apology in his voice had deepened.
"That I know," said Bach shortly.
"And now it is the people—they will not let him go," murmured the choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play—every motet and aria and choral—and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster wiped his brow.
"It is a long life," said Bach musingly. ”

“ I must have money. I am a burden—sick—a cough that racks the soul. Aurora comes but seldom. The cough hurts her. She is busy. I do not look into her eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It stretches from my window—sunny, French field! Miles away, beneath a Polish sky, I see my mother's eyes. Unshed tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she calls to me, "thou wilt be a great musician. Poland will be proud of thee!" Poland—dear land—proud of Frederic Chopin! My heart is empty. It aches.
Nohant, June 1, 1847.
It is over. Life has stopped. ”

“ Its touch is sweet—like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my salon—shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's wash-basin—going!—for ten sous—going!" My pictures, [148] caskets, tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady! Cruel one—my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever—false dawn that could not stand the sun's deep kiss—Aurora. ”

“ With a hiss upon the last word, he threw open his arms. "Come!" he said, "take your instrument and play."
Then fell upon the assembly a series of squeaks and gruntings and tunings and twinges and groans and wails such as was never heard outside a Bach festival. And little Sebastian, tugging at his violin, tuned and squeaked and [43] grunted with the rest, oblivious to the taps that fell on his small head from surrounding bows. And when at last the tuning was done and there burst forth the wonderful new melody of the choral, Sebastian's heart went dizzy with the joy of it. ”

“ At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more—to-day," he said slowly. His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.
The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.
"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. [204] "I would not part with it—not for all the gold of Venice!"
The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he stammered.
"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is our secret—hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand." ”

“ His glance shifted and rested on the book that lay on the grass. "What is it?—What is it, Sebastian?" he asked timidly. He put out an inquisitive finger toward the book.
Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let be," he said.
The boy flushed. "I was not going to touch it."
The other smiled, with his slow, generous eyes fixed on the boy's face. "Thou art a good boy, Erdman!" ... "It is only thy fingers that itch to know things." He patted them gently, where they lay on the grass beside him.
Erdman was still looking at the book. "Was it your brother's?" he asked in a half whisper.
"Christoph's?" ”

“ The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.
Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he murmured softly. [160]
She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," she said; "it is the music."
"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry—half cynical.
Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.
Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. ”

“ The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose white [157] and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, Titian, on the big façade to the south, and Zarato and I—" He laid his hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and I on the inner court."
The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece of work," he said.
Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." ”