by Myrtle Reed
XVI
Afraid of Life
She kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had alreadytrespassed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it bestto go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her togo to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, andwould always think of them kindly.
Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless night of his life, went to thetrain with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, andcruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, atleast, made no effort to lessen it.
They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came insight, Lynn bent over her. "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "if you everwant me, will you promise me that you will let me know?"
"Yes," she replied, with an incredulous laugh, "if I ever want you, Iwill let you know."
"I will go to you," said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, "fromthe very end of the world. Just send me the one word: 'Come.' And let methank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for thememory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always."
"You are quite welcome," she returned, frigidly. "You--" but the roar ofthe train mercifully drowned her words.
The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly,the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked awayblindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt.
From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Someare wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences.Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through thedusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a singlestar. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberatingthunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef ofPain.
It seemed as though Lynn's heart were rising in an effort to escape. "Imust keep it down," he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut,bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet,there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully.
Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting himto the last, calling his love an insult. "Machine--clod--mountebank"--the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again.
It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, morethan once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank?That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words?Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put hishand against his breast to quiet the throbbing.
No one knew--no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he wassure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself.He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. Hismother's keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could bealone a great deal--outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shudderedat the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered howmany more would follow in its train.
Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was notprepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to HerrKaufmann's, and tell him that he did not feel like taking hislesson--that he had a headache, or something of the kind--thathe had hurt his wrist, perhaps.
He hoped that Fraeulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that hemight leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answeredhis ring.
"So," said the Master, "you are once more late."
"No," answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, "I just came to tell youthat I couldn't take my lesson to-day. I don't think," he stammered,"that I can ever take any more lessons."
"And why?" demanded the Master. "Come in!"
Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomedbright colours. One look at Lynn's face had assured Herr Kaufmann thatsomething was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil.
"So," said the Master. "Mine son, is it not well with you?"
Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. "Not very," heanswered in a low tone.
"Miss Iris," said the Master, "she will have gone away?"
It was like the tearing of a wound. "Yes," replied Lynn, almost in awhisper, "she went this morning."
"And you are sad because she has gone away? I am sorry mineself. MissIris is one little lady."
"Yes," returned Lynn, clenching his hands, "she is."
Something in the boy's eyes stirred an old memory, and made the Master'sheart very tender toward him. "Mine son," he said very gently, "ifsomething has troubled you, perhaps it will give you one relief to tellme. Only yesterday Miss Iris was here. She was very sad when she came,and when she went away the world was more sunny, or so I think."
Quickly surmising that Herr Kaufmann had something more than a hint ofit, and more eager for sympathy than he realised, Lynn stammered out thestory, choking at the end of it.
There was a long silence, in which the Master went back twenty-fiveyears. Lynn's eyes, so full of trouble, were they not like another's,long ago? The organ-tone of the thunder once more reverberated throughthe forest, where the great boughs arched like the nave of a cathedral,and the dead leaves scurried in fright before the rising wind.
"That is all," said the boy, his face white to the lips. "It is notmuch, but it is a great deal to me."
"So," said the Master, scornfully, "you are to be an artist and you areafraid of life! You are summoned to the ranks of the great and youshrink from the signal--cover your ears, that you shall not hear thetrumpet call! This, when you should be on your knees, thanking the goodGod that at last He has taught you pain!"
Lynn's face was pitiful, and yet he listened eagerly.
"There is no half-way point," the Master was saying; "if you take it,you must pay. Nothing in this world is free but the sun and the freshair. You must buy shelter, food, clothing, with the work of your handsand brain. If someone else gives it to you, it is not yours--you are oneparasite. You must earn it all.
"You think you can take all, and give nothing? It is not so. For six,eight years now, you study the violin. You learn the scales, thetechnique, the good wrist, and nothing else. I teach you all I can, butit must come from yourself, not me. I can only guide--tell you when youhave made one mistake.
"What is it that the art is for? Is it for one great assembly of peopleto pay the high price for admission? 'See,' they say, 'this young man,what good tone he has, what bowing, what fine wrist! How smooth he playshis concerto! When it is marked fortissimo, see how he plays fortissimo!It is most skilful!' Is the art for that? No!
"It is for everyone in the world who has known trouble to be lifted upand made strong. They care nothing for the means, only for the end. Theyhave no eyes for the fine bowing, the good wrist--what shall they knowof technique? And yet you must have the technique, else you cannot givethe message.
"Everyone that hears has had his own sorrow. None of them are new ones,they are all old, and so few that one person can suffer all. It is foryou to take that, to know the hurt heart and the rebellious soul, sothat you can comfort, lift up, and make noble with your art.
"And you--you cry out when you should be glad. Miss Iris does not loveyou, and beyond that you do not see. Suppose one thousand people werebefore you, and all had loved someone who did not care for them. Couldyou make it easier if you knew nothing of it by yourself?
"Listen. On a hill in Italy there was once a tree. It was a seed at thebeginning, a seed you could hold with the ends of your fingers, so. Itwas buried in the ground, covered up with earth like something that haddied. Do you think the seed liked that?
"But is it afraid, when its heart is swelling? No! It breaks through,with the great hurt. Still there is earth around it, still it is buried,but yet it aspires. One day it comes to the surface of the ground, andonce more it breaks through, with pain.
"But the sun is bright and warm, and the seed grows. Careless feettrample upon it--there is yet one more hurt. But i
t straightens, waitsthrough the long nights for the blessed sun, and so on, until it is sohigh as one bush.
"Constantly, there is growing, one aspiration upward. Bark comes and thetree swells outward, always with pain. Someone cuts off all the lowerbranches, and the tree bleeds, yet keeps on. Other branches come thickabout it; there is one struggle, but through the dense growth the treeclimbs, always upward. In the sun above the thick shade, it can laugh atthe ache and the thorns, but it does not forget.
"And so, upward, always upward, till it is lifted high above itsfellows. Birds come there to sing, to build their nests, to rear theiryoung, to mourn when one little bird falls out from the nest and is madedead.
"The sun shines fiercely, and it nearly dies in the heat. The stormcomes and it is shrouded in ice--made almost to die with the cold. Thewild winds rock it and tear off the branches, making it bleed--theremust always be pain. The thunders play over its head, the lightningsburn it, and yet its heart lives on. The rains beat upon it like oneriver, and still it grows.
"The years go by and each one brings new hurt, but the tree is made hardand strong. One day there comes a man to look at it, all the straightfine length, the smooth trunk. 'It will do,' he says, and with his axehe chops it down. Do you think it does not hurt the tree? After the longyears of fighting, to be cut like that?
"Then it falls, crashing heavy through the branches to the ground. See,there must always be pain, even at the end. Then more cutting, morebleeding, more heat, more cold. Fine tools--steel knives that tear andsplit the fibres apart. Do you think it does not hurt? More sun, morecold, still more cutting, tearing, and throwing aside. Then, one day, itis finished, and there is mine Cremona--all the strength, all thebeauty, all the pain, made into mine violin!
"But the end is not yet. God is working with me and mine as well as withmine instrument. As yet, I do not know that it is for me--it comes to methrough pain.
"One old gentleman, one of the first to travel abroad from this countryfor pleasure, he goes to Italy, he finds it in the hands of one ignorantdrunkard, and he buys it for little. He brings it home, but he cannotplay, and no one else can play; he does not know its value, but itpleases him and he takes it. For long years, it stays in one attic, withthe dust and the cobwebs, kicked aside by careless feet.
"Meanwhile, I know one lovely young lady. I meet her by chance, and welike each other, oh, so much! 'Franz,' she says to me, 'you live on onehill in West Lancaster, and mine mother, she would never let me speakwith you, so I must see you sometimes, quite by accident, elsewhere. Onpleasant days, I often go to walk in the woods. Mine mother likes me tobe outdoors.' So, many times, we meet and we talk of strange things.Each day we love each other more, and all the time her mother does notsuspect. We plan to go away together and never let anyone know until weare married and it is too late, but first I must find work.
"'Franz,' she says to me one day, 'up in mine attic there is one oldviolin, which I think must be valuable. Mine mother is away with afriend and the house is by itself. Will you not come up to see?'
"So we go, and the house is very quiet. No one is there. We go like twothieves to the attic, laughing as though we were children once more.Presently we find the violin, and I see that it is one Cremona, veryold, very fine, but with no strings. I fit on some strings that I havein mine pocket, but there is no bow and I can only play pizzicato. Ineed to hear the tone but one moment to know what it is that I have. 'Itis most wonderful,' I say, and then the door opens and one very angrylady stands there.
"She tells me that I shall never come into that house again, that I mustgo right away, that I have no--what do you say?--no social place, andthat I am not to speak with her daughter. To her she says: 'I willattend to you very soon.' We creep down the stairs together and mineBeloved whispers: 'Every day at four, at the old place, until I come.' Iunderstand and I go away, but mine heart is very troubled for her.
"For long days I wait, and every day, at four, I am at themeeting-place in the wood, but no one comes, and there is no message, noword. All the time I feel as you feel now because Miss Iris has goneaway and does not care. I wait and wait, but I can get no news, and Ifear to go to the house because I shall perhaps harm mine Beloved, andshe has told me what to do. Every day I am there, even in the rain,waiting.
"At last she comes, with the violin under her arm, wrapped in her coat.'I have only one minute,' she cries; 'they are going to take me away,and we can never see each other again. So I give you this. You must keepit, and when you are sad it will tell you how much I love you, how muchI shall always love you. You will not forget me,' she says. There isjust one instant more together, with the thunders and the lightnings allaround us, then I am alone, except for mine violin.
"Do you not see? There must always be pain. The dear God has made mineinstrument, and in the same way He has made me, with the cutting and thebruises and the long night. I, too, have known the storm and all thefury of the winds and rain. Like the tree, I have aspired, I have grownupward, I have done the best I could. Otherwise, I should not be fittedto play on mine Cremona--I would not deserve to touch it, and so, in away, I am glad.
"I have had mine fame," he went on. "With the sorrow in mine heart, Ihave studied and worked until I have made mineself one great artist. Ifyou do not believe, I can show you the papers, where much has beenwritten of me and mine violin. Women have cried when I have played, andhave thrown their red roses to me. I had the technique, and when thehurt broke open mine heart, I was immediately one artist. I understood,I could play, I could lift up all who suffered, because I had knownsuffering mineself.
"Mine son, do you not understand? You can give only what you have. Ifone sorrow is in your heart, if you have learned the beauty and thenobility of it, you can teach others the same thing. You can show themhow to rise above it, like the tree that had one long lifetime of hurt,and ended in mine Cremona to help all who hear. The one who plays theinstrument must be made in the same way, of the same influences--thecutting, the night, and the cold. Of softness nothing good ever comes,for one must always fight.
"Nothing in this whole world is free but the sun and the fresh air andthe water to drink. We must pay the fair price for all else. I have hadmine fame and I have paid mine price, but the heights are lonely, andsometimes I think it would be better to walk in the valley with awoman's hand in mine. But at the first, before I knew, I chose. I said:'I will be an artist,' and so I am, but I have paid, oh, mine son, Ihave paid and I am still paying! There is no end!"
The Master's face was grey and haggard, but his eyes burned. Lynn sawwhat it had cost him to open this secret chamber--to lay bare this oldwound. "And I," he said huskily, "I touched the Cremona!"
"Yes," said the Master, sadly, "on that first day, you lifted up mineCremona, and until to-day I have never forgiven. There has beenresentment in mine old heart for you, though I have tried to put itaside. Her hands were last upon it--hers and mine. When I touched it, itwas the place where her white fingers rested, where many a time I putmine kiss to ease mine heart. And you, you took that away from me!"
"If I had only known," murmured Lynn.
"But you did not know," said the Master, kindly; "and to-day I haveforgiven."
"Thank you," returned Lynn, with a lump in his throat; "it is much togive."
"Sometimes," sighed the Master, "when I have been discouraged, I havebeen very hungry for someone to understand me--someone to laugh, totouch mine tired eyes, to make me forget with her little sweet ways. Inmine fancy, I have seen it all, and more.
"When I have gone down the hill to the post-office, where there hasnever been the letter from her, and the little children have run to me,holding out their arms that I should take them up, I have felt that theprice was too high that I have paid. But all the time I have understoodthat on the heights one must go alone, for a time at least, with thethunders and the lightnings and the storms. If I had been given one son,I think he would have been like you, one fine tall young fellow with thehonest face and the laugh
ing ways, but you have been shielded, and Ishould not have done so. I should have let you grow from the start andlearn all things so soon as you could."
"I never knew my father," Lynn said, deeply moved, "but if I couldchoose, I would choose you."
"So," said the Master, his eyes filling. Then their hands met in a longclasp of understanding.
"Already I am the richer for it," Lynn went on, after a little. "I knownow what I did not know before."
The boy's face was still white, but the look of hopeless despair wasmerged into something which foreshadowed ultimate acceptance. The Masterstill held his hand.
"If you are to be an artist," he said, once more, "you must not beafraid of life. You must welcome it to its utmost cross. You must takethe cold, the heat, the poverty, the hunger, the burning way through thedesert, the snow-clad steeps, the keen hurt, and the happiness--it isall one, for it gives you knowledge. You must know all the pain of theworld, face to face, if you are to help those who bear it. Keen feelingsgive you the great hurt, but also, in payment, the great joy. Thebalance swings true. The Herr Doctor has told me this. He is most wise;he understands."
"I see," answered Lynn. "I will never be afraid again."
"That," said the Master, with his face alight,--"that is mine son's truecourage. Take it with your head up, your teeth shut, and your heartalways believing. Fear nothing, and much will be given back to you,--isit not so? Let life do all it can--you will never be crushed unless youare willing that it should be so. Defeat comes only to those who inviteit."
"I see," said Lynn, again; "with all my heart I thank you."
He went away soon afterward, insensibly comforted. Overnight, he hadcome into his heritage of pain, had lost the girl he loved, and in swiftrestitution found comradeship with the Master.
That stately figure lingered long before his vision, grey and rugged,yet with a certain graciousness--simple, kindly, and yet austere; onewho had accepted his sorrow, and, by some alchemy of the spirit,transmuted it into universal compassion, to speak, through the Cremona,to all who could understand.