by Kate Chopin
WITH THE VIOLIN
“And he over the mantel-piece with big black eyes, and such long black hair, and a violin; is he your brother too, Papa Konrad? And why do you keep a green branch always hanging over his picture?”
“No, that is not my brother, Sophie; that is an angel whom the good God allowed once, to save a poor desperate human being from sin and death.”
“But where are his wings, Papa Konrad? I never saw an angel look like that; and so black too!”
“There are some angels without wings, little Grissel. Not many I admit; but I have known a few.”
“Tell us how he saved the poor desperate man, Papa Konrad.”
“Well, Sophie, if you will brush up the hearth like a good little housewife; and Ernst throw some coals on the fire; and little Grissel come and sit here on my knee, I will try to tell you the story. It happened a good many years ago — as you little ones count them. As many years, I suppose, as Ernst has been living in the world, How old are you, Ernst?”
“Ten years old, going on eleven.”
“Then it was before your time, for it happened just twelve years ago to-night. My! but that was a cold night!” “Colder than it is to-night, Papa Konrad?”
“Oh, far, far colder. There was no snow on the ground as there is to-night, but the air seemed filtered through ice. People hurried from one shop to another to keep away from the cold. And the coachmen, driving their fine carriages, were wrapped in great furs till only their eyes peeped out. All the shops were ablaze; but there were not many, on such a night, willing to stand and look into their windows. Yet there stood the poor devil I am going to tell you about, looking into a jeweler’s big show-case, where the workmen had just laid aside their tools. Those watch-menders, whom you have seen wearing a big round glass in one eye, you know.”
“That’s what you are — a watch-mender, isn’t it, Papa Konrad?”
“To be sure, Sophie. Well, he had been inside, asking for work, and there was none for him. He had said to himself before going in, this shall be my last trial. So now he stood looking absently in at the window; the frozen air penetrating his body; for his clothes were thin and few. He was hungry, and very, very miserable. Only think, he was in a strange city, without friends, and without work, and with no money. He still had a little room, away up in the top story of a very high, rickety old building.”
“How high was the building, Papa Konrad? I bet, not so high as the little windows of the Cathedral steeple.”
“No, no, Ernst, not so high, but quite high enough, that when he reached the top he was faint and exhausted from mounting the stairs. I believe that little room was colder than out-doors. At any rate, it was more cheerless. Another lump of coal on the fire, Ernst; that’s a fine boy, and how strong! Little Grissel is not sleeping? that’s well. The broken windows were rattling in their loose casings, and the bitter cold was sweeping in gusts down the bleak chimney, through the empty fire-place and into the room. He went in and sat right down — for he had no great coat to stop and take off, you know. He spread his arms out on the table, and stared blankly before him through the window, into the darkness. But I think he saw nothing save his own heart that was sore and tired, and did not care to beat any longer and keep him alive. It seemed to him as if the world had pushed him aside; as if mankind had shut him out from a share in their common existence, and left him alone with a misery that he could no longer bear. The truth is, he wanted to die, and he was so reckless he never thought if the good God wanted him to go or not, before he was called. He just wanted to die; and he had something in his pocket that was going to help him end his unhappy life.”
“I know: it was a pistol, and he was going to shoot himself.”
“No, Ernst, it was not a pistol. He had none; nor money to buy one either. It was only a little white deadly powder. On the mantle-shelf there was a cracked tea cup, and an end of candle which he lighted. He wiped out the cup — for it was dusty, and he wanted that his poison be clean, at least — and in it he emptied the powder. Then he went to the pitcher to get water to pour on it; but the water was all frozen, through and through. However, a little thing like that was not going to stop him. He took the rusty poker; held it in the flame of the candle till it was pretty hot, and with it he melted a little of the ice at a time, till he had what water he needed. Never mind the poker, Ernst; put it down. We don’t want to heat that one; and you scatter the ashes that Sophie just swept so nicely. Well, he went back to the table and seated himself; this time with the cup before him, and he closed his eyes a moment — not hesitatingly — only while he might bid good-bye to life, as it were. As he sat thus, there suddenly broke upon the stillness, a long low wail, like the voice of a soul that begs. Oh! but it was soft and exquisite, and it sent a quiver through the frame of the poor wretch who heard it. That sweetness of sound seemed to swell and grow broader till it filled the little room with melody such as you never heard in your lives, children. Such a blending of tones! pleading, chiding, singing out in the night. He at the table sat spellbound: now with wide-open eyes; for he was no longer in his cold bleak room. His blood tingled with a genial warmth. Hundreds of lights were blazing. He was a little boy again, happy of heart, seated between father and mother in a grand theater, and listening to the same wonderful music that came to him now. Ah! that would have been a moment to die in. But this enchanting voice had made him forget that he wanted to die. It had brought youth, and love, and trust, back to his old heart.”
“Papa Konrad, it must have been the angels, singing on Christmas eve!”
“That is what the poor creature thought at first himself, Sophie. What he did was to get up, and dash his cup of poison into the empty fireplace. Then he fell on his knees and wept, and thanked the good God who had chosen this way to speak to him. When he arose, he crept close, close to the door to listen, for those heavenly sounds were coming from the next room. When the music had ended — I’m sure, I don’t know how he found courage to do it — he rapped gently on the door.”
“Wasn’t he afraid, Papa Konrad? Suppose it had been real angels! oh my!”
“Well, he knew it wasn’t such angels as we see in the picture books, Ernst. When he knocked a second time, the door opened, and there stood the young man whose picture you see hanging over the mantle-piece. Standing just that way, with his violin under his arm, his long black hair hanging over his forehead, and his dark eyes full of kindness. He looked puzzled at first; then threw the door wide open, and drew the unhappy man into his room. A lamp was burning brightly, and there was a good fire in the grate. Not such a fine one, to be sure, as Ernst has been making us; but it was like the glow of warm sunlight to the desolate old man. The young musician said nothing, but drew his chair up and looked fixedly at his strange guest. Then he arose, went to a little cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of beer.”
“And butter and jam? Papa Konrad?”
“No, Grissel, I’m afraid there was neither butter nor jam; but I’m sure it tasted like nectar and ambrosia. Make me think to tell you about nectar and ambrosia at our little talk next Sunday. Before the poor devil went to bed that night, he had told everything to the young violin-player; and from that moment he never wanted for a friend again.”
“That was a grand, rich young man, wasn’t he? And he gave the poor old man plenty money?”
“No, he wasn’t rich, Ernst. He had only a little himself; but that little he shared with the other till darkness was past. If we only have patience to wait through the night, children, be sure that day will break at the close of it.”
“Where is the young man now, Papa Konrad? Is he dead, and has he got real wings on in heaven?”
“Oh! no, Sophie. Thank God he isn’t dead! He is coming to eat his Christmas dinner with me to-morrow.”
“But I thought that Herr Ludwig, the great leader of the opera, was coming to eat Christmas dinner with you; and that was why you were going to have such a grand dinner; and said that we mig
ht come in and have coffee and cake afterwards!”
“Ah! to be sure — to be sure, Papa Konrad is getting old and forgets things. I hear the mother calling. Maybe Santa Claus has come and lighted the Christmas-tree.”
MRS. MOBRY’S REASON
I
It was in the springtime and under the blossom-laden branches of an apple tree that Editha Payne finally accepted John Mobry for her husband.
For three years she had been refusing him, with an obstinacy that made people wonder only a little less than they marvelled at the persistence of his desire to marry her. She was simply a nobody — an English girl with antecedents shrouded in obscurity; a governess, moreover; not in her first youth, and none too handsome. But John Mobry was of that class of men who, when they want something, usually keep on wanting it and striving for it so long as there is possibility of attainment in view.
Chance brought him to her that spring day out under the blossoms, at a moment when inward forces were at work with her to weaken and undo the determination of a lifetime.
She looked away from him, far away across the green hills that the sun had touched and quickened, and beyond, into the impenetrable mist. Her tired face wore the look of the conquered who has made a brave fight and would rest.
“Well, John, if you want it,” she said, placing her hand in his.
And as she did so she formed the inward resolve that her eyes should never again look into the impenetrable mist. But why she had ever rejected him was something which people kept on asking themselves and each other for the length of time that people will ask such things.
The answer came slowly — twenty-five years later. Most people had forgotten by that time that they ever wanted to know why.
II
Again it was springtime.
A young man who had been trying to read, where he lounged in the deep embrasure of a window, turned to say to the girl who sat playing at the piano:
“Naomi, why is it the spring always comes like a revelation — a delicious surprise?”
“Wait, Sigmund,” and she played the closing bars of the piece of music that was open before her, then rising, went to join him at the window.
She was a splendid type of physical health and beauty, lithe, supple, firm of flesh, wearing youth’s colors in cheek and lip; youth’s gloss and glow in the waves of her thick brown hair. Her brown eyes drowsed and gleamed alternately, and questioned often.
“The spring?” she said, “why does it come like a revelation? How should I know? This is surely reversing roles when you question.”
She took the book from his hand to glance carelessly through its pages.
“Do you know, you are a very curious young woman,” he said, looking at her with something of admiration, but yet superciliously, for he was young, and a college student. “You gave me the same reply this morning when I asked you — what was it, now, I asked you?”
“To define the quality in Chopin’s music that charms me. Well,” she continued, “I don’t know the ‘why’ of things. That certain sounds, scenes, impressions move me I know, because I feel it. I don’t bother about reasons. Remember, Sigmund, I know so little.”
“Oh, you want training, no doubt, and it’s an immense pity you’ve never received it. Let us go through a course together this summer. Do you agree to it?”
He was the lordly collegiate, sure of his weapons.
“I don’t believe I do, Sigmund,” Naomi laughed. “And if I did it would be useless, for mamma never would consent. You know what she thinks of ologies and isms and all that for women.”
“Oh, isms and ologies do not constitute solely the training I have in mind.”
“Why, my recollection never goes back to any time when books formed an important feature of my life,” she interrupted. “I’ve lived more than half my days under the sky, galloping over the hills, as often as not with the rain stinging my face. Oh, the open air and all that it teems with! There’s nothing like it, Sigmund. What color! Look, now, at the purple wrapping those hills away to the east. See the hundred shades of green spreading before us, with the new-plowed fields between making brown dashes and patches. And then the sky, so blue where it frames those white velvet clouds. They’ll be red and gold this evening.”
“What a greedy eye you have — a veritable savage eye for pure color. Do you know how to use it? to make it serve you?”
“Oh, no, Sigmund,” she said. “Music’s the only thing I’ve studied and learned. Mamma couldn’t have prevented that if she’d wanted to, I believe. There’s nothing that has the meaning for me in this world that sound has. I feel as if the Truth were going to come to me, some day, through the harmony of it. I wonder if anyone else has an ear so tuned and sharpened as I have, to detect the music, not of the spheres, but of earth, subtleties of major and minor chord that the wind strikes upon the tree branches. Have you ever heard the earth breathe, Sigmund?” she asked, with wide eyes that filled with merriment when she saw the astonishment in his.
Then, half laughing, half singing the gay refrain of a comic opera air, she sprang with quick cat-like movement to her feet, and seizing a foil from against the wall, whirled with it into position in the centre of the room.
Her companion had been as quick to follow. They measured their distances with stately grace, and looked a continuous challenge into each other’s eyes. Then for five long minutes, as they stood face to face exchanging skillful thrust and parry, no sound was heard but the clink and scrape of the slender steels; on the hard-wood floor the stamp of advancing feet in the charge. It was only when Mrs. Mobry’s long, pale face looked in at the cautiously opened door that the engagement ended.
“Why, Naomi,” she said, a little apologetically, coming into the room, “I didn’t hear the piano and— “
“And you wondered what disaster could have happened,” the girl replied, flushed and amused as she replaced her weapon upon the wall. “I was only giving Cousin Sigmund a lesson with the foils, mamma.”
“You know your father comes on the early train to-day, Naomi; he’ll be disappointed if you’re not at the station to meet him, dear.”
“And a perfect right he’d have to be disappointed, and bewildered, too. When have I ever failed him?”
And she quitted the room, making, as she left it, a pass at Sigmund with an imaginary weapon, and laughing gaily as she did so.
Mrs. Mobry went to the piano and gathered together the sheets of music that Naomi had left there in some disorder, and arranged them upon the stand. She had the appearance of seeking occupation; a house full of servants left her little or none of a manual sort; for wealth was one of the things which John Mobry had persistently wanted, long ago.
Mrs. Mobry was past fifty, with her hair, that was turning gray, carefully parted and brushed smooth down upon her temples. When she seated herself and began to rock gently, she drew the cape which she wore closely about her thin shoulders.
“Don’t you find it chill, Sigmund,” she said, “with that window open? I dare say not, though; young blood is warm.”
But Sigmund went and closed the window, making no boast that his veins were scintillant. He only said:
“You’re right, Aunt Editha; this early spring air is treacherous.”
“I wanted to speak with you a moment alone, dear,” she commenced at once, coughing uneasily behind her hand. “It may be, and I trust it is, wholly unnecessary, this caution; but it’s best to be open, so far as we can be, in this world. And, of course, when young people are thrown together— “
Sigmund, to quote his thoughts, literally, wondered what his aunt was driving at.
“I only want to say — as you perhaps are not aware of it — that it’s our intention, and Naomi’s, too, that she shall never marry. As you will be with us all summer I thought it best to acquaint you at once with such little family arrangements, so that we may all feel comfortable and avoid unpleasant consequences.” Mrs. Mobry smiled feebly as she said this, and smoothed down the hair
on her temples with her long thin hands.
“Has Naomi made you such a promise?” Sigmund asked, thinking it a great pity if she had.
“Oh, there’s been no promise, but it has been always understood. I’ve impressed upon her since she was a little child that she is to remain with me always. It looks selfish — I know it looks selfish; your Uncle John even thinks so, though he has never opposed my wish.”
“I see rather a natural instinct in this wish of yours than cold selfishness, Aunt Editha. Something you can’t overcome, perhaps. I remember now hearing how fearfully cut up you were two years ago when Edward married.”
Mrs. Mobry grew a shade paler, and her voice trembled when she said:
“I can’t pardon Edward. It was treacherous, marrying in that way, knowing how I opposed it. It was unfortunate that your uncle should have sent him to take charge of the business in Middleburg. That marriage could not have come about if he had been here at my side, where his place was.”
“But, Aunt Editha, it isn’t such a calamity after all. He has married a charming woman, and seems perfectly happy. If you would consent to visit him, and were to see his content with your bodily eyes I think you would be reconciled to his coup d’état.”
Sigmund thought his aunt Editha rather stupidly set in her ideas. But as he had already recognized the possibility of falling in love with his cousin, Naomi, he was not ill-pleased that Mrs. Mobry had so considerately warned him. If he walked into the fire now it would be with open eyes.
Sigmund was the son of Mr. Mobry’s sister; a student of medicine, twenty-two years of age, a little run down and overworked, and hoping for recuperation amid these Western hills. He had visited his uncle’s family often as a child, when he and his cousin Edward — two years his senior — had been friends. But his absence this time had lasted four years. He had left Naomi an awkward, boisterous girl of fourteen. When he returned he found that she had undergone a seeming re-creation.