The child said, with a voice which curiously enough gave the effect of the vox humana stop on the organ, ‘Oh Papa, mayn't I stay with you now? I will be very good and not speak at all.’
‘I am not sure,’ the father said. Anyhow the child stayed there, seated on a stool close to his father.
The table d’hôte dinner went on in the usual way. The soup was followed by fish, and, strange to say, we had something which was called ‘roast beef’, and likewise chicken, which this day had altered its nomenclature to ‘Poularde au cresson’. They talked together livelily; indeed, I was rather surprised to hear our melancholy friend make several humorous remarks.
Nevertheless, I was puzzled in my head what relations these people were to each other. The odd thing was the child had little or indeed no resemblance to his father; he had some resemblance in physiognomy to the woman, he certainly had also golden hair; nevertheless the general effect was rather that of a relation to the child, the expression was totally different from hers. Then again, (for of course, he violated his promise by speaking at least a little) the child addressed the woman as mother, not as mamma: whereas he always called the melancholy man papa. The other man he addressed as Uncle Alfred. But he had no resemblance to either of them: was he her brother or his brother? Or neither? Anyhow, they spoke English: and about the period of the ‘Bavarois de chocolat à la crème’ we fell into conversation together, as people generally do in small places at the table d’hôte, and by the time that coffee arrived, or rather did not arrive (I think I omitted to mention I am of Irish extraction), we arranged to take coffee together in what they called the ‘Salon of conversation’. There was a piano there: the child rushed at the piano: and said, ‘Oh Papa, I haven't seen a piano for four whole days: mayn't I play a little—only a little?’
The father looked somewhat embarrassed, and said, ‘Perhaps the ladies might not like it.’ Of course we said we had no objection, somewhat faint-heartedly, I fear. Then the man addressed as Alfred said, ‘Oh, it's not as bad as you think. He won't play “Rousseau's Dream” or even “The Battle of Prague.” Indeed, he plays the piano quite nicely.’
Quite nicely indeed! The child sat down to the instrument and began to play. As he played his eyes acquired a look of inspiration: a Divine violet flash seemed to shoot forth from them. He looked less then like an adoring angel than a glorified seraph in Heaven: and that which he played! Some strange improvisation, some intercomplicated variation of variations of a melody, which seemed somehow to be familiar to me. Suddenly my daughter said to me: ‘Do you know mother, where we heard that tune before? How very odd. Do you remember the concert we went to here in Belgium, when Sybrandt von den Velden played, what he calls in the programme “Improvised Variation of his own Theme”? But how on earth did the child pick that up? It was ever such a long time ago we heard him: why it must have been before this child was born.’
Then I remembered that about ten years before there was a young musician, of the name of Sybrandt von den Velden, very popular in his time. I was so surprised that Dorothy, whom, being my daughter, I did not credit with being clever (she certainly is, by the bye, all the same), should remember a thing she had heard when she was hardly older than the child who was playing.
Certainly, we raised no objection.
The father had a mingled expression on his face: ecstatic delight, but not that of pride of hearing his son play so well on the piano. Also, (as I said before my late husband taught me to observe things), the expression suggested painful reminiscence.
The mother then said, ‘Really, Siboo, it's about time you were in bed.’
The child did not say ‘Good-night’ to his mother, or to the man he called Uncle Alfred: but only to his father, whom he kissed fervently.
The father again, with a face for that moment becoming beautiful, made the sign of the Cross on the child's forehead. The child glided out so silently that we did not for a moment notice that he had gone.
The woman said, ‘I and Alfred are going to take a walk round the town. Will you come too?’
He said, ‘I've seen the town already: so I had better leave you two children to yourselves.’ This he said good-humouredly. Nevertheless, I could not get rid of the impression that there was something rather odd about it altogether. The melancholy man asked permission to smoke a cigarette; which I accorded: and told my daughter that she really ought to be thinking about going to bed. So I was left with him alone as I had intended all along, to satisfy my curiosity at last, and find out who he was.
Chapter II
‘Well,’ I ventured to say, as from subsequent acquaintance he appeared to be a far less inaccessible person than I had originally supposed him to be, ‘may I ask you a rather impertinent question, namely:—How on earth did you get here? I always thought it was ourselves that had discovered Ostraeke. Never has a word of English been heard here before: when one has discovered a pet place one of course resents any intrusion.’
He answered pleasantly, ‘I don't know when you discovered Ostraeke, but I think I discovered it before you did, a long time ago and, quite by chance; in fact I used to know someone here.’ At this point his face again assumed that painful expression I had observed previously: then changing to a smile, which was really attractive (from my first impressions of him I should not have supposed he would ever smile) he continued, ‘it was certainly very unfair of me to drag my wife here: it was certainly not the sort of place she would like:’ then he continued somewhat meditatively, ‘how should I have got on without my child?’ I had always thought him excessively reserved but here he was inclined to be confidential. I believe I am one of those persons who inspires confidences—at least some people have said so. But I said, ‘How beautifully your little boy plays!’
‘Oh yes, he really has a genius for music.’
‘So young a child! by whom has he been taught, if I might ask?’
He answered, ‘No, that is the most extraordinary thing about it. He has had no instruction whatsoever, and cannot read one note of music; and could not even puzzle out the “Cottage by the Wood”. Yet, as one must admit, he does not play badly.’
‘Play badly indeed!’ said I, ‘his playing is simply marvellous. He seems to play almost by inspiration.’
‘Yes, inspiration,’ he answered, ‘but what idea do you attach to inspiration? You will not think as I do, and probably do not conceive the supernatural, or preternatural.’ (How did he find that out: did he guess that I was the wife of a doctor?) He continued: ‘To me it seems, he is possessed by some extraneous influence, to play as he does.’
‘But really,’ I said, ‘having such an extraordinary talent, you at least ought to place him under the best masters: with instruction in technique, or indeed instruction generally, since you say he knows nothing about music whatsoever; he might develop into something wonderful.’
‘No, I don't want my child to be an infant phenomenon. Any connection with that sort of thing would only make him vain and selfconscious, which he is not now, “Deo gratias”.’
I was struck just then by the single fact that he should have used that familiar phrase of the Roman Catholic Church, tho’ it made no particular impression at the time: anyhow, I labelled him in my mental note book as a Roman Catholic. Still, my object was to find out who he was. So, after short reflection, I hit upon a way of ascertaining this.
‘It is a dreadful lonely place, Ostraeke; my daughter and I have no society at all.’ I wished I had not expressed it exactly like that: however, it was no harm. ‘We've got the big salon on the first floor, and it really seems too selfish to have it all to ourselves. Would not you and your wife perhaps sometimes come and take tea with us. We have it at 5 o’clock, according to the excellent English custom. Tea is a thing absolutely unknown here. But we have some of our own, and actually a real Russian samovar. So I think on the whole you would find our tea rather nice.’
He said, ‘Certainly, my wife and I would be only too glad. It is true that I, like you
, hardly expected to find English people at Ostraeke.’
‘As we are stranded on this desert island, at least comparatively desert—one could hardly call it an island, I may hope to see you tomorrow. Perhaps I had better give you my card,’ which I handed to him.
He looked at the card with an expression of surprise, but why I could not think, seeing there was nothing particularly startling in my invitation.
Then he handed me his card: and my surprise was certainly greater than his. On it was written, ‘The Earl of Kilcoran.’ My very own first cousin! and met in this out of the way place: and one who for family reasons I should not suppose would be particularly well inclined towards me. I determined to set a bold face on the matter. So I said: ‘I see you are a near relative of mine: but nevertheless on that account there is no reason why we should not be good friends.’
‘No reason at all,’ he answered, smiling with real affability.
‘Then mind,’ I went on, ‘I shall expect you tomorrow at five o’clock, room No: 17. Both you, and wife and child, and—’ (here I hesitated, but hazarded) ‘your brother in law.’
‘Brother in law?’ he said interrogatively; ‘I suppose you mean Alfred. He is no relation of mine, or indeed of yours. We might perhaps seem to be relations. But you must know the family. He is Alfred Athenry: son of Lord Dungorey. You know they live in County Galway.’
Of course I knew of them. We first of all had one point in common, we were not English: now it turned out we were both Irish—still further point. And not only that but nearly related. ‘But still you will excuse me:’ I said. ‘I must see my daughter. So, à demain.’
Chapter III
Next morning I looked our of the window and saw that divine child holding on to the hand of his father going into that beautiful large church just opposite, which by the bye is always mentioned in the Guide Books as a Cathedral—although it is not. This seems a trivial incident, but still it gave me a multiplicity of impressions; or rather, I should say, the impression of two ideas, which I myself had before neither felt nor realised. What is the sentiment of paternity? What is the meaning of that mysterious religion which I was brought up to dislike and despise? I did not love my mother or my father. My mother died when I was still a child. I have a vague remembrance of her: she was strict and rigid and wore cork-screw curls. My father had always something about him which inspired me with distrust. He was never really interesting except on his death bed, which was frightening. I was present all the time at his last delirious ravings. He kept on screaming, ‘O Elizabeth, send for a priest, for God's sake, as you would save your soul. A priest, I mean a real priest, a Catholic priest.’ Then he became delirious again, and repeated over and over again, ‘Sancta Maria mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.’ Then he went on saying ‘in hora mortis!’; then trying to rise from the bed, a wild terrible look in his eyes, cried shrilly ‘memorare O pissima neminam ad tuam damn it! I've forgotten that prayer.’ Then lying back, ‘esse derelictum?’ The priest was sent for, which was indeed a surprise to me, as we were generally supposed to be what in Ireland were called Black Protestants. He was not at home. We were in the country in a somewhat desolate district. The priest had gone to give the last sacraments to an old woman particularly noted for her piety in our district, who certainly did not need such consolations as religion might afford so much as my father. I afterwards married a doctor, who, as doctors not rarely are, was an atheist. Yet still this has ever haunted me, what mysterious power that religion might have which induced my father to cry for its consolations at the last after he had long renounced it and through life had spoken bitterly against it. But this is merely by the way. Despite the estrangement of the two families, there was no reason why I should not be decently amiable to Kilcoran, who after all was my first cousin; whom I certainly had no reason to dislike; and seeing moreover that I have not the prejudices which my father had, or rather had not, at the last.
Chapter IV
Well, that afternoon they did come to tea, and so an acquaintance ripened. We invited one another mutually to tea, went with one another to the theatre—for Ostraeke does boast of a theatre, and not at all a bad one, all things considered, and also to concerts and to excursions in the neighbourhood. Since Kilcoran was my cousin we got to call one another by our Christian names. The more I saw of him the more I grew to like my cousin. But I did not quite like Margaret, though she was indeed sometimes very charming, and I certainly did not like Alfred, though he was undeniably clever and amusing. There was something about the relations between Margaret and Alfred which puzzled me completely, for why did Kilcoran, who was by no means an unobservant man, take no notice of many things, which I noticed very quickly? He seemed to regard everything in their case with complete indifference. Yet in other matters he noticed minutely the most trivial things.
As to the child, have I not already said that my heart went out to him from the first?—the more I saw of him the more I loved him. It is difficult to describe him, as I knew him by further acquaintance. He was not exactly what one may call clever; nevertheless he was intelligent and bright, and he had not that odious precocity, which is the common fault of exceptional children. His only precocity was in music, where he was precocious indeed; without being stupidly shy he was yet singularly silent, and literally fulfilled the precept, that little boys should be seen and not heard. He only became animated when his father was present; otherwise he only spoke if he had been first addressed.
Chapter V
One day we had a concert in Ostraeke; an exceptionally grand concert—though our concerts usually were not bad on the whole—at which there were going to play a well known violinist, a well known pianist, and several other performers, whose names have either escaped me, or would be superfluous to mention, as they have no connection with the present narrative. We had not procured a programme beforehand, and of course we all went. When we got to the concert, I began looking through the programme. That which rather struck my eyes first, just on account of what my daughter had said to me, was a Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden. I really forget now what mental connection I made between the name of Sybrandt von den Velden and the people who were with me. Yet I somehow thought it would interest them. And it did, in a way that was quite unexpected. I was speaking before of having heard Sybrandt von den Velden play the piano, somewhere in Belgium about ten years or so ago. I remember him vividly; especially as being the only person I have ever heard, not excepting the most well known pianists, who could give the true rendering and accentuation of Chopin. He was a great success in his day. His compositions, all very remarkable and original, were but little known outside Belgium, his native country, and naturally he is the glory of Ostraeke, his native town, which never produced anyone of importance before.
Margaret was always pale; not that chalk white lymphatic pallor, but a fine ivory pallor, suited so well to her golden hair; in fact I came to call her Chryselephantine. But when the Romance for the violin commenced, (she had not, by the bye, previously looked at the programme; I had the only one, and told all the other people what was coming next) her pallor became almost ghastly. I thought she was going to faint, and was ready to render her assistance. But nothing of the kind! Her blue eyes, fixed on her husband, seemed to emit sparks, first with the expression of frozen hatred, then of reproach; then of great tenderness. Yes, she certainly loved him, which I hardly suspected from her general demeanour, though they appeared to get on well enough together. But in this case there was no mistake. If woman's eyes ever expressed real love, that was the expression of hers. Next her face assumed a pained expression, which curiously enough reminded me of the husband's expression on the first day of our meeting, when the child played on the piano. He was sitting at the back of the box, in the shadow, which he appeared to have selected for himself on purpose. Alfred was altogether indifferent, and looked on the whole rather bored. The child's face lit up, as though a light from Heaven was cast upon it.
His eyes dilated, and glimmered like amethysts seen through fire, while his subtle exquisite form quivered in a kind of ecstasy.
Now, why on earth were these three people making all that fuss in a quiet way about that piece of music, which I admit was certainly very remarkable, but not sufficient to produce these particular manifestations of emotion? I could quite understand the child's emotion, for he was always exceedingly impressionable to musical effects; but still, never so much as on this particular occasion.
The concert was drawing to an end. There were only two more pieces, and by good luck Dorothy said ‘Well, mamma after that, really one could not stand that wretched song from the “Traviata”. Hadn't we better go?’ Kilcoran said with some trembling in his voice, ‘Yes, I quite agree with you.’ But coming out from the shade and into the light he continued smilingly, ‘It is always a pity to spoil one's finest impressions.’ The lips smiled, the eyes did not. Margaret growled, with rather a graceful growl. ‘Yes, I think it is about time for us to go.’ And Alfred said, ‘Yes, how awfully hot it is in here.’
Chapter VI
That evening as we were in the ‘Salon of Conversation,’ Alfred said, ‘Siboo, won't you play us a tune to-night?’ The child answered almost sulkily—I had never seen him sulky before; he was always amiable—‘Well, what do you want me to play?’ Alfred, who was always kind to the child—that indeed seemed to me the best trait about him—said amiably, ‘Well don't you remember anything of the concert this afternoon?’
The child had not spoken one word during dinner or afterwards. He was sitting on the sofa, leaning on his father's shoulder, with a dull look. At Alfred's last remark his face suddenly became animated. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, with a smile, which was the only thing in which one could trace any resemblance to his father, ‘I do remember that!’ Then, in spite of some slight resistance on the part of his father, he darted, like an arrow from a bow, to the piano, and began to play. I have already said he played divinely; so what am I to say now? None of his former playing could equal or be compared to this.
Of Kings and Things Page 17