Project Gutenberg's Stories By English Authors: Germany, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Stories By English Authors: Germany Author: Various Release Date: March 25, 2006 [EBook #2071] Last Updated: September 21, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS: *** Produced by Dagny; John Bickers and David Widger
THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY, By Beatrice Harraden KOOSJE: A STUDY OF DUTCH LIFE, by John Strange Winter MARKHEIM, by Robert Louis Stevenson |
God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason, and welcome; ‘tis we musicians know.“I have lived through a long life,” said another elderly man, “and have therefore had my share of trouble; but the grief of being obliged to give up music was the grief which held me longest, or which perhaps has never left me. I still crave for the gracious pleasure of touching once more the strings of the violoncello, and hearing the dear, tender voice singing and throbbing, and answering even to such poor skill as mine. I still yearn to take my part in concerted music, and be one of those privileged to play Beethoven’s string-quartettes. But that will have to be in another incarnation, I think.” He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then, as though ashamed of this allusion to his own personal infirmity, he added hastily: “But when the first pang of such a pain is over, there remains the comfort of being a listener. At first one does not think it is a comfort; but as time goes on there is no resisting its magic influence. And Lowell said rightly that ‘one of God’s great charities is music.’” “I did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith,” said an English lady. “You have never before spoken of music.” “Perhaps not, madam,” he answered. “One does not often speak of what one cares for most of all. But when I am in London I rarely miss hearing our best players.” At this point others joined in, and the various merits of eminent pianists were warmly discussed. “What a wonderful name that little English lady has made for herself!” said the major, who was considered an authority on all subjects. “I would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be very proud of her. She has taken even the German musical world by storm, and they say her recitals at Paris have been brilliantly successful. I myself have heard her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and even Chicago.” The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair. “I don’t think Miss Flowerdew has ever been to Chicago,” she said. There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked much annoyed, and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant to say “Philadelphia,” but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake. “What impertinence!” said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. “What can she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?” “Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew’s piano!” suggested Miss Blake, in a loud whisper. “You are right, madam,” said the little girl, quietly. “I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew’s piano.” There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady, whom every one reverenced, came to the rescue. “I think her playing is simply superb,” she said. “Nothing that I ever hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angel’s touch.” “Listening to her,” said the major, who had now recovered from his annoyance at being interrupted, “one becomes unconscious of her presence, for she is the music itself. And that is rare. It is but seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her, it would not be easy to forget her. I should recognise her anywhere.” As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others he followed her, and said stiffly: “I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward position.” “It is really of no consequence,” she said, brightly. “If you think I was impertinent, I ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be officious. The words were spoken before I was aware of them.” She passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself, and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relieved the company of her presence her impertinence was commented on. “I am sorry that she heard what I said,” remarked Miss Blake; “but she did not seem to mind. These young women who go out into the world lose the edge of their sensitiveness and femininity. I have always observed that.” “How much they are spared then!” answered some one. Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She had merry dreams, and finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then stood ready to go for a butterfly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy, and evidently had found, and was holding tightly, the key to life’s enjoyment. Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony, and he reminded her that he intended to go with her. “Come along then,” she answered; “we must not lose a moment.” They caught butterflies; they picked flowers; they ran; they lingered by the wayside; they sang; they climbed, and he marvelled at her easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight her—the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance of the pine woods. “Is it not good to live?” she cried. “Is it not splendid to take in the scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isn’t it good? Don’t you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do. What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best of her treasures!” Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard’s soul, and he felt like a school-boy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty, with nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the freedom of the moment. “Is it not good to live?” he cried. “Yes, indeed it is, if we know how to enjoy.” They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to help them, laughing and talking to the women, and helping them to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed his burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard watched his companion for a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dignity as an amateur tenor singer, he too lent his aid, and did not leave off until his companion sank exhausted on the ground. “Oh,” she laughed, “what delightful work for a very short time! Come along; let us go into that brown chatlet yonder and ask for some milk. I am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own flowers.” “What an independent little lady you are!” he said. “It is quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you,” she said, with a tone of mischief in her voice. “That reminds me that my profession is evidently not looked upon with any favour by the visitors at the hotel. I am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem of that lady in the billycock hat. What will she say to you for coming out with me? And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I wonder whether she will say, ‘How unfeminine!’ I wish I could hear her!” “I don’t suppose you care,” he said. “You seem to be a wild little bird.” “I don’t care what a person of that description says,” replied his companion. “What on earth made you contradict the major at dinner last night?” he asked. “I was not at the table, but some one told me of the incident; and I felt very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew?” “Well, considering that she is in my profession, of course I know something about her,” said the little girl. “Confound it all!” he said, rather rudely. “Surely there is some difference between the bellows-blower and the organist.” “Absolutely none,” she answered; “merely a variation of the original theme!” As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old dame to give them some milk. They sat in the Stube, and the little girl looked about, and admired the spinning-wheel and the quaint chairs and the queer old jugs and the pictures on the walls. “Ah, but you shall see the other room,” the old peasant woman said; and she led them into a small apartment which was evidently intended for a study. It bore evidences of unusual taste and care, and one could see that some loving hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum of refinement. There was even a small piano. A carved book-rack was fastened to the wall. The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then she pointed proudly to the piano. “I bought that for my daughters,” she said, with a strange mixture of sadness and triumph. “I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I saved and saved, and got enough money to buy the piano. They had always wanted to have one, and I thought they would then stay with me. They liked music and books, and I knew they would be glad to have a room of their own where they might read and play and study; and so I gave them this corner.” “Well, mother,” asked the little girl, “and where are they this afternoon?” “Ah,” she answered sadly, “they did not care to stay; but it was natural enough, and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me.” “And then they play to you?” asked the little girl, gently. “They say the piano is out of tune,” the old dame said. “I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell.” The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords. “Yes,” she said; “it is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer. I am sorry,” she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, “but I cannot neglect my duty. Don’t wait for me.” “I will wait for you,” he said, sullenly; and he went into the balcony and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience. When she had faithfully done her work she played a few simple melodies, such as she knew the old woman would love and understand; and she turned away when she saw that the listener’s eyes were moist. “Play once again,” the old woman whispered. “I am dreaming of beautiful things.” So the little tuner touched the keys again with all the tenderness of an angel. “Tell your daughters,” she said, as she rose to say good-bye, “that the piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next time they come.” “I shall always remember you, mademoiselle,” the old woman said; and, almost unconsciously, she took the childish face and kissed it. Oswald Everard was waiting in the hay-field for his companion; and when she apologised to him for this little professional intermezzo, as she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves, which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed. “It was very good of you to tune the old dame’s piano,” he said, looking at her with renewed interest. “Some one had to do it, of course,” she answered, brightly, “and I am glad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the next time those daughters come to see her they will play to her and make her very happy! Poor old dear!” “You puzzle me greatly,” he said. “I cannot for the life of me think what made you choose your calling. You must have many gifts; any one who talks with you must see that at once. And you play quite nicely, too.” “I am sorry that my profession sticks in your throat,” she answered. “Do be thankful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be something worse—a snob, for instance.” And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, and left him to recover from her words. He was conscious of having deserved a reproof; and when at last he overtook her he said as much, and asked for her kind indulgence. “I forgive you,” she said, laughing. “You and I are not looking at things from the same point of view; but we have had a splendid morning together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on my way.” “And to-morrow you go,” he repeated. “Can it not be the day after to-morrow?” “I am a bird of passage,” she said, shaking her head. “You must not seek to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes.” They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table d’hote. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She closed the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let them rest on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to move and make sweet music; and then they drifted into Schumann’s “Abendlied,” and then the little girl played some of his “Kinderscenen,” and some of his “Fantasie Stucke,” and some of his songs. Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the true musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one by one, the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious to see the musician. The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos and wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those who listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret, and which had won for her such honour as comes only to the few. She understood Schumann’s music, and was at her best with him. Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both. Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there was something of that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia. At last she arrived at the “Carnaval,” and those who heard her declared afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering. The tenderness was so restrained; the vigour was so refined. When the last notes of that spirited “Marche des Davidsbundler contre les Philistins” had died away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who was standing near her almost dazed. “And now my favourite piece of all,” she said; and she at once began the “Second Novelette,” the finest of the eight, but seldom played in public. What can one say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the pathetic longing of the intermezzo?
. . . The murmuring dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea;and
The passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through.What can one say of those vague aspirations and finest thoughts which possess the very dullest among us when such music as that which the little girl had chosen catches us and keeps us, if only for a passing moment, but that moment of the rarest worth and loveliness in our unlovely lives? What can one say of the highest music except that, like death, it is the great leveller: it gathers us all to its tender keeping—and we rest. The little girl ceased playing. There was not a sound to be heard; the magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her. “There is only one person who can play like that,” cried the major, with sudden inspiration—“she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew.” The little girl smiled. “That is my name,” she said, simply; and she slipped out of the room. The next morning, at an early hour, the bird of passage took her flight onward, but she was not destined to go off unobserved. Oswald Everard saw the little figure swinging along the road, and she overtook her. “You little wild bird!” he said. “And so this was your great idea—to have your fun out of us all, and then play to us and make us feel I don’t know how, and then to go.” “You said the company wanted stirring up,” she answered, “and I rather fancy I have stirred them up.” “And what do you suppose you have done for me?” he asked. “I hope I have proved to you that the bellows-blower and the organist are sometimes identical,” she answered. But he shook his head. “Little wild bird,” he said, “you have given me a great idea, and I will tell you what it is: to tame you. So good-bye for the present.” “Good-bye,” she said. “But wild birds are not so easily tamed.” Then she waved her hand over her head, and went on her way singing.
“The winds whistle cold and the stars glimmer red, The sheep are in fold and the cattle in shed;”and the fine old glee sounded fairly well as we drove through the gathering gloom of the forest. But Tita sang, in her low, sweet fashion, that Swedish bridal song that begins:
“Oh, welcome her so fair, with bright and flowing hair; May Fate through life befriend her, love and smiles attend her;”and though she sang quietly, just as if she were singing to herself, we all listened with great attention, and with great gratitude too. When we got out of Huferschingen, the stars were out over the dark stretches of forest, and the windows of the quaint old inn were burning brightly. “And have you enjoyed the amusement of the day?” says Miss Fahler, rather shyly, to a certain young man who is emptying his creel of fish. He drops the basket to turn round and look at her face and say earnestly: “I have never spent so delightful a day; but it wasn’t the fishing.” Things were becoming serious. And next morning Charlie got hold of Tita, and said to her, in rather a shamefaced way: “What am I to do about that fox? It was only a joke, you know; but if Miss Fahler gets to hear of it, she’ll think it was rather shabby.” It was always Miss Fahler now; a couple of days before it was Franziska. “For my part,” says Tita, “I can’t understand why you did it. What honour is there in shooting a fox?” “But I wanted to give the skin to her.” It was “her” by this time. “Well, I think the best thing you can do is to go and tell her all about it; and also to go and apologise to Dr. Krumm.” Charlie started. “I will go and tell her, certainly; but as for apologising to Krumm, that is absurd!” “As you please,” says Tita. By-and-by Franziska—or rather Miss Fahler—came out of the small garden and round by the front of the house. “O Miss Fahler,” says Charlie, suddenly,—and with that she stops and blushes slightly,—“I’ve got something to say to you. I am going to make a confession. Don’t be frightened; it’s only about a fox—the fox that was brought home the day before yesterday; Dr. Krumm shot that.” “Indeed,” says Franziska, quite innocently, “I thought you shot it.” “Well, I let them imagine so. It was only a joke.” “But it is of no matter; there are many yellow foxes. Dr. Krumm can shoot them at another time; he is always here. Perhaps you will shoot one before you go.” With that Franziska passed into the house, carrying her fruit with her. Charlie was left to revolve her words in his mind. Dr. Krumm could shoot foxes when he chose; he was always here. He, Charlie, on the contrary, had to go away in little more than a fortnight. There was no Franziska in England; no pleasant driving through great pine woods in the gathering twilight; no shooting of yellow foxes, to be brought home in triumph and presented to a beautiful and grateful young woman. Charlie walked along the white road and overtook Tita, who had just sat down on a little camp-stool, and got out the materials for taking a water-colour sketch of the Huferschingen Valley. He sat down at her feet on the warm grass. “I suppose I sha’n’t interrupt your painting by talking to you?” he says. “Oh dear, no,” is the reply; and then he begins, in a somewhat hesitating way, to ask indirect questions and drop hints and fish for answers, just as if this small creature, who was busy with her sepias and olive greens, did not see through all this transparent cunning. At last she said to him, frankly: “You want me to tell you whether Franziska would make a good wife for you. She would make a good wife for any man. But then you seem to think that I should intermeddle and negotiate and become a go-between. How can I do that? My husband is always accusing me of trying to make up matches; and you know that isn’t true.” “I know it isn’t true,” says the hypocrite; “but you might only this once. I believe all you say about this girl; I can see it for myself; and when shall I ever have such a chance again?” “But dear me!” says Tita, putting down the white palette for a moment, “how can I believe you are in earnest? You have only known her three days.” “And that is quite enough,” says Charlie, boldly, “to let you find out all you want to know about a girl if she is of the right sort. If she isn’t you won’t find out in three years. Now look at Franziska; look at the fine, intelligent face and the honest eyes; you can have no doubt about her; and then I have all the guarantee of your long acquaintance with her.” “Oh,” says Tita, “that is all very well. Franziska is an excellent girl, as I have told you often—frank, kind, well educated, and unselfish. But you cannot have fallen in love with her in three days?” “Why not?” says this blunt-spoken young man. “Because it is ridiculous. If I meddle in the affair I should probably find you had given up the fancy in other three days; or if you did marry her and took her to England you would get to hate me because I alone should know that you had married the niece of an innkeeper.” “Well, I like that!” says he, with a flush in his face. “Do you think I should care two straws whether my friends knew I had married the niece of an innkeeper? I should show them Franziska. Wouldn’t that be enough? An innkeeper’s niece! I wish the world had more of ‘em, if they’re like Franziska.” “And besides,” says Tita, “have you any notion as to how Franziska herself would probably take this mad proposal?” “No,” says the young man, humbly. “I wanted you to try and find out what she thought about me; and if, in time something were said about this proposal, you might put in a word or two, you know, just to—to give her an idea, you know, that you don’t think it quite so mad, don’t you know?” “Give me your hand, Charlie,” says Tita, with a sudden burst of kindness. “I’ll do what I can for you; for I know she’s a good girl, and she will make a good wife to the man who marries her.” You will observe that this promise was given by a lady who never, in any circumstances whatsoever, seeks to make up matches, who never speculates on possible combinations when she invites young people to her house in Surrey, and who is profoundly indignant, indeed, when such a charge is preferred against her. Had she not, on that former Christmas morning, repudiated with scorn the suggestion that Charlie might marry before another year had passed? Had she not, in her wild confidence, staked on a wager that assumption of authority in her household and out of it without which life would be a burden to her? Yet no sooner was the name of Franziska mentioned, and no sooner had she been reminded that Charlie was going with us to Huferschingen, than the nimble little brain set to work. Oftentimes it has occurred to one dispassionate spectator of her ways that this same Tita resembled the small object which, thrown into a dish of some liquid chemical substance, suddenly produces a mass of crystals. The constituents of those beautiful combinations, you see, were there; but they wanted some little shock to hasten the slow process of crystallisation. Now in our social circle we have continually observed groups of young people floating about in an amorphous and chaotic fashion—good for nothing but dawdling through dances, and flirting, and carelessly separating again; but when you dropped Tita among them, then you would see how rapidly this jellyfish sort of existence was abolished—how the groups got broken up, and how the sharp, businesslike relations of marriage were precipitated and made permanent. But would she own to it? Never! She once went and married her dearest friend to a Prussian officer; and now she declares he was a selfish fellow to carry off the girl in that way, and rates him soundly because he won’t bring her to stay with us more than three months out of the twelve. There are some of us get quite enough of this Prussian occupation of our territory. “Well,” says Tita to this long English lad, who is lying sprawling on the grass, “I can safely tell you this, that Franziska likes you very well.” He suddenly jumps up, and there is a great blush on his face. “Has she said so?” he asks, eagerly. “Oh yes! in a way. She thinks you are good-natured. She likes the English generally. She asked me if that ring you wear was an engaged ring.” These disconnected sentences were dropped with a tantalising slowness into Charlie’s eager ears. “I must go and tell her directly that it is not,” said he; and he might probably have gone off at once had not Tita restrained him. “You must be a great deal more cautious than that if you wish to carry off Franziska some day or other. If you were to ask her to marry you now she would flatly refuse you, and very properly; for how could a girl believe you were in earnest? But if you like, Charlie, I will say something to her that will give her a hint; and if she cares for you at all before you go away she won’t forget you. I wish I was as sure of you as I am of her.” “Oh I can answer for myself,” says the young man, with a becoming bashfulness. Tita was very happy and pleased all that day. There was an air of mystery and importance about her. I knew what it meant; I had seen it before. Alas! poor Charlie!
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