Mrs Peixada

by Henry Harland

  CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.”

  AT home that evening, on the loggia, Hetzel said, “I have news foryou.”

  “Ah?” queried Arthur.

  “Yes—about your mystery across the way.”

  “Well?”

  “She’s no longer a mystery. The ambiguity surrounding her has beendispelled.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “To start with, after you went down-town this morning, carts ladenwith furniture began to rattle into the street, and the furniture wascarried into No. 46. It appears that they have taken the whole house,after all. They were merely camping out in the third story, whilewaiting for the advent of their goods and chattels. So we were jumpingto a conclusion, when we put them down as poverty-stricken. Thefurniture was quite comfortable looking. It included, by the way, asecond piano. Confess that you are disappointed.”

  “Why should I be disappointed? The divine voice remains, doesn’t it?Go ahead.”

  “Well, I have learned their names.—The lady of the house is anelderly widow—Mrs. Gabrielle Hart. She has been living tillrecently in an apartment-house on Fifty-ninth Street, facing CentralPark—’The Modena’.”

  “But the songstress?”

  “The songstress is Mrs. Hart’s companion. She is also a Mrs.—Mrs.Lehmyl—L-e-h-m-y-l—picturesque name, isn’t it?”

  “And Mr. Lehmyl—who is he?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Lehmyl is a widow, too. She dresses in black.”

  “Ah, you have seen her? Describe her to me.”

  “No, I haven’t seen her. But Josephine has. It is to Josephine thatI owe the information so far communicated.”

  “What does Josephine say she looks like?”

  “Josephine doesn’t say. She caught but a meteoric glimpse of her, asshe stood for a moment this afternoon at her front door. Like the womanshe is, she paid more attention to her costume than she did to herfeatures.”

  “Well, any thing further?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Has she sung for you since I left?”

  “Not a bar. Probably she has been busy, helping to put the house torights.”

  “Let us hope she will sing for us to-night.”

  “Let us hope so.”

  But bed-time stole upon them, and their hopes had not yet been rewarded.

  The week wound away. Nothing new transpired concerning the occupants ofNo. 46. Mrs. Lehmyl sang almost every evening. But neither Arthurnor Hetzel nor Josephine succeeded in getting sight of her; which, ofcourse, merely aggravated our hero’s curiosity. Sunday afternoon hestood at the front window, gazing toward the corner house. The two cats,heretofore mentioned, were disporting themselves upon the window-ledge.

  Hetzel, who was seated in the back part of the room, noticed thatArthur’s attitude changed all at once from that of languid interestto that of sharp attention. His backbone became rigid, his neck cranedforward; it was evident that something had happened. Presently he turnedaround, and remarked, with ill-disguised excitement, “If—if you’reanxious to make the acquaintance of that Mrs. Lehmyl, here’s yourchance.”

  It struck Hetzel that this was pretty good. “If I am anxious to makeher acquaintance!” he said to himself. Aloud, “Why, how is that?”he asked.

  “Oh,” said Arthur, “two ladies—she and Mrs. Hart, Isuppose—have just left the corner house, and crossed the street, andentered our front door—to call on Mrs. Berle, doubtless.”

  Mrs. Berle was the down-stairs neighbor of our friends—a middle-agedJewish lady, whose husband, a commercial traveler, was commonly awayfrom home.

  “Well?” questioned Hetzel.

  “Well, you ought to call on Mrs. Berle, anyway, you know. She has beenso polite and kind, and has asked you to so often, that really it’s nomore than right that you should show her some little attention. Why notimprove this occasion?”

  “Oh,” said Hetzel, yawning, “I’m tired. I prefer to stay homethis afternoon.”

  “Nonsense. You’re simply lazy. It’s—it’s positively a matterof duty, Hetz.”

  “Well, you have so frequently asserted that I have no sense of duty,I’m trying to live up to your conception of me.”

  After a minute of silence, “The fact of the matter is,” venturedArthur, “that I too owe Mrs. Berle a visit, and—and won’t you godown with me, as a favor?”

  “Oh, if you put it on that ground, it’s another question. As a favorto you, I consent to be dragged out.”

  “Hurrah!” cried Arthur, casting off the mask of indifference that hehad thus far clumsily worn. “I’ll go change my coat, and come backin an instant. Wasn’t I lucky to be posted there by the window at themoment of their exit? At last we shall see her with our own eyes.”

  Ere a great while, Mrs. Berle’s maid-servant ushered them into Mrs.Berle’s drawing-room.

  Mrs. Lehmyl was at the piano—playing, not singing. Arthur enjoyed afine view of her back. My meaning is literal, when I say “enjoyed.”Impatient though he was to see her face, he took an indescribablepleasure in watching her back sway to and fro, as her fingers racedup and down the keyboard. Its contour was refined and symmetrical. Itsundulations lent stress to the music, and denoted fervor on the partof the executant. Arthur can’t tell what she was playing. It wassomething of Rubenstein’s, the title of which escapes him—something,he says, as vigorous as a whirlwind—a bewitching melody soundingabove a tempest of harmony—it was the restless, tumultuous, barbaricRubenstein at his best.

  At its termination, the audience applauded vehemently, and demandedmore. The result was a Scherzo by Chopin. Afterward, Mrs. Lehmyl rosefrom the piano and fanned herself. Every body began simultaneously totalk.

  Mrs. Berle presented Hetzel and Arthur in turn to the two ladies. Ofthe latter she was kind enough to remark, “Dot is a young lawyerdown-town, and such a goot young man”—which made him blush profuselyand wish his hostess a dozen apoplexies.

  Mrs. Hart was tall and spare, a severe looking woman of sixty, orthereabouts. She wore a gray poplin dress, and had stiff gray hair, anda network of gray veins across the backs of her hands. A penumbra uponher upper lip proved, when inspected, to be due to the presence of anincipient mustache. Her eyes were blue and good-natured.

  Mrs. Lehmyl’s manner was at once dignified and gracious. Arthurmade bold to declare, “Your playing is equal to your singing, Mrs.Lehmyl—which is saying a vast deal.”

  “It is saying what is kind and pleasant,” she answered, “but Ifear, not strictly accurate. My playing is very faulty, I have so littletime to practice.”

  “If it is faulty, a premium ought to be placed upon such faults,” hegushed.

  Mrs. Lehmyl laughed, but vouchsafed no reply. “And as for yoursinging,” he continued, “I hope you won’t mind my telling you howmuch I have enjoyed it. You can’t conceive the pleasure it has givenme, when I have come home, fagged out, from a day down-town, to hear yousing.”

  “I am very glad if it is so. I was afraid my musical pursuits mightbe a nuisance to the neighbors. I take for granted that you are aneighbor?”

  “Oh, yes. Hetzel and I inhabit the upper portion of this house.”

  “Ah, then you are the young men whom we have noticed on the roof. Itis a brilliant idea, your roof. You dine up there, do you not?”

  “Let’s go into the back room,” cried Mrs. Berle; and she led theway.

  In the back room wine and cakes were distributed by a German Madchen ina French cap. The gentlemen—there were two or three present besidesArthur and Hetzel—lit their cigars. The ladies, of whom there werean equal number, with the exception of Mrs. Lehmyl, gathered in a knotaround the center-table. Mrs. Lehmyl went to the bay-window and admiredthe view. It was, indeed, admirable. A crystalline atmosphere permittedone to see as far down the river as the Brooklyn Navy Yard; andleagues to the eastward, on Long Island, the marble of I know not whatburying-ground glittered in the sun. An occasional schooner slipped pastalmost within stone’s throw. On the wharf under the terrace,
fifty oddyards away, an aged man placidly supported a fishing pole, and watched acork that floated immobile upon the surface of the water. Over all bentthe sky, intensely blue, and softened by a few white, fleecy clouds. ButArthur’s faculties for admiration were engrossed by Mrs. Lehmyl’sface.

  I think the first impression created by her face was one of power,rather than one of beauty. Not that it was in the slightest degreemasculine, not that it was too strong to be intensely womanly. But atfirst sight, especially if it chanced then to be in repose, it seemedto embody the pride and the solemnity of womanhood, rather than itsgentleness and flexibility. It was the face of a woman who could purposeand perform, who could suffer and be silent, who could command and beinexorable. The brow, crowned by black, waving hair, was low and broad,and as white as marble. The nose and chin were modeled on the patternof the Ludovici Juno’s. Your first notion was: “This woman is calm,reserved, thoughtful, persistent. Her emotions are subordinated toher intellect. She has a tremendous will. She was cut out to be anempress.” But the next instant you noticed her eyes and her mouth: andyour conception had accordingly to be reframed. Her eyes, in color dark,translucent brown, were of the sort that your gaze can delve deep into,and discern a light shimmering at the bottom: eyes that send an electricspark into the heart of the man who looks upon them; eyes that areeloquent of pathos and passion and mystery. Her lips were full andruddy, and indicated equal capacities for womanly tenderness and forgirlish mirth. It was easy to fancy them curling in derisive laughter:it was quite as easy to fancy them quivering with intense emotion,or becoming compressed in pain. Insensibly, you added: “No—not anempress: a heroine, a martyr to some noble human cause. It was like thisthat the Mother of Sorrows must have looked.”

  She was beautiful: on that score there could be no difference ofopinion. Her appearance justified the expectations that her voicearoused. She was beautiful not in a pronounced, aggressive way, but ina quiet, subtle, and all the more potent way. Her beauty was of the sortthat grows upon one, the longer one studies it; rather than of the sortthat, bullet-like, produces its greatest effect at once. Join to thisthat she was manifestly young, at the utmost five-and-twenty, and thereader will not wonder that Arthur’s antecedent interest in her hadmounted several degrees. I must not forget to mention her hands. Thesewere a trifle larger than it is the fashion for a lady’s hands tobe; but they were shaped and colored to perfection, and they had anunconscious habit of toying with each other, as their owner talkedor listened, that made it a charm to watch them. They were suggestivehands. Arthur felt that, had he understood the language of hands, hecould, by observing these, have divined a number of Mrs. Lehmyl’ssecrets; and he bethought him of an old treatise on palmistry that laygathering dust in his book-case up-stairs. Around her wrist she wore abracelet of amber beads. She was dressed entirely in black, and had asprig of mignonette pinned in her button-hole.

  As has been said, she admired the view. “I am so glad we have cometo live in Beekman Place,” she added; “it is such a contrast to therest of dusty, noisy, hot New York.”

  “To hear this woman utter small talk,” says Arthur, “was likeseeing a giant lift straws. I half wished that she would not speak atall, unless to proclaim mighty truths in hexameters. Still, had she keptsilence, I am sure I should have been disappointed.”

  She was much amused by the old fisherman down on the wharf; wonderedwhether he had met with any luck; and thought that such patient devotionas he displayed, merited recognition on the part of the fishes. She wascurious to know what the granite buildings were on Blackwell’s Island.Arthur undertook the office of cicerone.

  “Prison and hospital and graveyard constantly in sight,” was hercomment; “I should think they would make one gloomy.”

  “A memento mori, as one’s eyes feast on sky and water. On moonlightnights in summer, it is superb here—quite Venetian. Every now andthen some dark, mysterious craft, slowly drifting by, reminds one ofElaine’s barge.”

  “It must be very beautiful,” she said, simply.

  At this juncture an excursion steamboat made its appearance upon theriver, and conversation was suspended till it had passed. It was gaywith bunting and black with humanity. It strove its best to render dayhideous by dispensing a staccato version of “Home, Sweet Home” fromthe blatant throat of a Calliope—an instrument consisting of a seriesof steam whistles graduated in chromatic scale.

  “How uncomfortable those poor people must be,” said Mrs. Lehmyl.“Is—is this one of the dark, mysterious craft?”

  “It is a product of our glorious American civilization. None butan alchemist with true American instincts, would ever have thought oftransmuting steam to music.”

  “Music?” queried Mrs. Lehmyl, dubiously.

  Arthur was about to qualify his use of the term when the door opened andadmitted a procession of Mrs. Berle’s daughters and sons-in-law.An uproar of greetings and presentations followed. The men exchangedremarks about the weather and the state of trade; the women, kisses andinquiries concerning health. Bits of news were circulated. “LesterBar is engaged to Emma Frankenstiel,” “Mrs. Seitel’s baby wasborn yesterday—another girl,” “Du lieber Gott!” “Ist’smoglich?” and so on; a breezy mingling of German with English, ofstatement with expletive; the whole emphasized by an endless swaying ofheads and lifting of eyebrows. The wine and cakes made a second tour ofthe room. Fresh cigars were lighted. The ladies fell to comparing notesabout their respective offspring. One of the gentlemen volunteered acircumstantial account of a Wagner concert he had attended the nightprevious. It was a long while before any thing resembling quiet wasrestored. Arthur seized the first opportunity that presented itself toedge back to Mrs. Lehmyl’s side.

  “All this talk about music,” he said, “has whetted my appetite.You are going to sing for us, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t dare to, in this assemblage of Wagnerites. The sortof music that I can sing would seem heresy from their point of view.I can’t sing Wagner, and I shouldn’t venture upon any thing soretrograde as Schumann or Schubert. Besides, I’m rather tired to-day,and—so please don’t introduce the subject. Mrs. Berle might followit up; and if she asked me, I couldn’t very well refuse.”

  Mrs. Lehmyl’s tone showed that she meant what she said.

  “This is a great disappointment,” Arthur rejoined.

  “You don’t know how anxious I am to hear you sing at close quarters.But as for your music being retrograde, why, only the other night Iwas admiring your fine taste in making selections. Wohin, for instance.Isn’t Wohin abreast of the times?”

  “The Wagnerites wouldn’t think so. It is melody. Therefore itis—good enough for the uninitiated, perhaps—but not to be put upwith by people of serious musical cultivation. The only passages inWagner’s own work that his disciples take exception to, are thosewhere, in a fit of artistic obliquity, he has become truly melodious.Here, they think, he has been guilty of backsliding. His melodies werethe short-comings of genius—pardonable, in consideration of theirinfrequency, but in no wise to be commended. The further he gets awayfrom the old standards of excellence—the more perplexing, complicated,artificial, soporific, he becomes—the better are his enthusiastspleased. The other day I was talking with one of them, and in thedesire to say something pleasant, I spoke of how supremely beautifulthe Pilgrim’s Chorus is in Tannhâuser. A look of sadness fell uponmy friend’s face, and I saw that I had blundered. ’Ah,’ she cried,’don’t speak of that. It makes my heart ache to think that themaster could have let himself down to any thing so trivial.’ That’stheir pet word—trivial. Whenever a theme is comprehensible, theydispose of it as trivial.”

  Arthur laughed and said, “It is evident to what school you belong.For my part, I always suspect that when a composer disdains to writemelodies, it is a case of sour grapes.”

  “Yes, he lacks the inventive faculty, and then affects to despiseit,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “My taste is very old-fashioned. Of courseevery body must recognize Wagner’s gr
eatness, and must appreciate himin his best moods. But when he cuts loose from all the established lawsof composition—well, I heard my sentiments neatly expressed once bySignor Zacchinelli, the maestro. ’It is ze music of ze future?’ heinquired. ’Zen I am glad I shall be dead.’ Smiting his breast hewent on, ’I want somezing to make me feel good here.’ That’s thetrouble. Except when Wagner abides by the old traditions, he never makesone feel good here. The pleasure he affords is intellectual rather thanemotional. He amazes you by the intricate harmonies he constructs, buthe doesn’t touch your heart. Now and then he forgets himself—isborne away from his theories on the wings of an inspiration—and thenhe is superb.”

  “I wonder,” Arthur asked, by and by, “whether you can tell me whatit was that you sang the evening I first heard you. It was more than aweek ago—a week ago Friday. At about sunset time, we were out on ourroof, and you sang something that I had never heard before,—somethingsoft and plaintive, with a refrain that went like this——” humminga bar or two of the refrain. “Oh, that? Did you like that?”

  “I did, indeed. I thought it was exquisite.”

  “I am glad, because it is a favorite of my own. It’s an oldFrench folk-song, arranged by Bizet. The title is Le Voile d’uneReligieuse.”

  “I wish I could hear it again. I can’t tell you how charming it wasto sit there in the open air, and watch the sunset, and listen to thatsong. Only, it was so exasperating not to be able to see the songstress.Won’t you be persuaded to sing it now? I’m sure you are not tootired to sing that.”

  “What? Here? I should never be absolved. The auditors—I dare notfancy what the effect upon them might be. That song, of all things! Why,it is worse than Schubert.—But seriously,” she added, gravely, “Icould not bear to expose any thing so dear to me as my music is, to theridicule it would provoke from the Wagnerites. It hurts me keenly tohear a song that I love, picked to pieces, and made light of, andtossed to the winds. It hurts me just as keenly to hear it praisedinsincerely—merely for politeness’ sake. Music—true music—islike prayer. It is too sacred to—you know what I mean—to be laidbare to the contempt of unbelievers.”

  “Yes, indeed, like prayer. It is the most perfect vehicle ofexpression for one’s deepest, most solemn feelings—that and——”

  “And poetry.”

  “How did you guess that I was going to say poetry?”

  “It was obvious. The two go together.”

  “So they do. Do you know, Mrs. Lehmyl, if I were to try my hand atguesswork, I think I could name your favorite poet.”

  “Indeed; who is he?”

  “Robert Browning.”

  Mrs. Lehmyl cast a half surprised, half startled glance at Arthur.“Are you a mind-reader? Or was it simply a chance hit?” she asked.

  “Then I was right?”

  “Yes, you were right, though I ought not to tell you so. You ought notto know your power, if power it was, and not mere random’ guesswork.One with that faculty of penetrating another’s mind must be adangerous associate. But tell me, what hint did I let fall, that madeyou suspect I should be fond of Browning?”

  “If I should answer that question, I am afraid you might deem mepresumptuous. I could not do so, without paying you a compliment.”

  “Then, leave it unanswered,” she said, coldly.

  At this moment Mrs. Hart rose and bade good-by to Mrs. Berle; thencalled across to Mrs. Lehmyl, “Come, Ruth;” and the latter wishedArthur good afternoon.

  He and Hetzel left soon after. Mrs. Berle said, “If you younggentlemen have no other engagement, won’t you take tea here a weekfrom to-night?”

  “You are very kind,” Hetzel answered; “and we shall do so withgreat pleasure.”

  Upstairs, “Well, how did you like her?” inquired Arthur.

  “Like whom? Mrs. Berle?”

  “No—Mrs. Lehmyl, of course, stupid.”

  “That’s a pretty question for you to ask; as though you’d given mea chance to find out. How did you like her?”

  “Oh, she’s above the average.”

  “Is that all? Then you were disappointed? She didn’t come up to youranticipations?”

  “Oh, I don’t say that. Yes, she’s# a fine woman.”

  “But her friend, Mrs. Hart, is a trump.”

  “So? Nobody would suspect it from her looks. Her austere coloringinspires a certain kind of awe.”

  “She’s no longer young. But she’s very agreeable, all the same. Wetalked a good deal together. She asked me to call. You weren’t a bitclever.”

  “No?”

  “No, sir. If you had been, you would have devoted yourself to Mrs.Hart. Then she would have invited you to call, too. So you could havecultivated Mrs. Lehmyl at your leisure.”

  “But you and I are one. You can take me to call with you, can’tyou?”

  “I don’t know about that. She asked me to drop in informally anyafternoon. You’re never home in the afternoon. Besides, you’re oldenough to receive an invitation for yourself.”

  “Nonsense! You can arrange it easily enough. Ask permission to bringyour Fidus Achates.”

  “I’ll see about it. If you behave yourself for the next week or two,perhaps I’ll exert my influence. By the way, how did you like Mrs.Lehmyl’s playing?”

  “She played uncommonly well—didn’t you think so?”

  “Indeed, I did. Execution and expression were both fine. She hasstudied in Europe, Mrs. Hart says.”

  “Did you learn who her husband is?”

  “I learned that he isn’t. I was right in my conjecture. She is awidow.”

  “That’s a relief. I am glad she is not-encumbered with a husband.”

  “Fie upon you, man! You ought to be ashamed to say it. He has beendead quite a number of years.”

  “Quite a number of years? Why, she can’t be more than twenty-four orfive years old—and besides, she’s still in mourning.”

  “I guess that’s about her age. But the mourning doesn’t signify,because it’s becoming to her; and so she would naturally keep it up aslong as possible.”

  “That introduces the point of chief importance. What did you think ofher appearance?”

  “Oh, she has magnificent eyes, and looks refined andinteresting—looks as though she knew what sorrow meant, too—only,perhaps the least bit cold. No, cold isn’t the word. Say dignified,serious, a woman with whom one could never be familiar—in whosepresence one would always feel a little—a little constrained. Thatisn’t exactly what I mean, either. You understand—one would alwayshave to be on one’s guard not to say any thing flippant or trivial.”

  “You mean she looks as though she were deficient in levity?”

  “Well, as though she wouldn’t tolerate any thing petty—a dialoguesuch as ours now, for example.”

  “I don’t know whether you have formed a correct notion of her, ornot. Cold she certainly isn’t. She’s an enthusiast on the subjectof music. And when we were talking about Wagner, she—wasn’t exactlyflippant—but she showed that she could be jocose. There’s somethingabout her that’s exceedingly impressive, I don’t know what it is.But I know that she made me feel, somehow, very small. She made me feelthat underneath her quiet manner—hidden away somewhere in her frailwoman’s body—there was the capability of immense power. She remindedme of the women in Robert Browning’s poetry—of the heroine of the’Inn Album’ especially. Yet she said nothing remarkable—nothing tojustify such an estimate.”

  “You were affected by her personal magnetism. A woman with eyes likehers—and mighty scarce they are—always gives you the idea of power.Young as she is, I suspect she’s been through a good deal. She has hadher experiences. That seems to be written on her face. Yet she didn’tstrike me as having the peach-bloom rubbed off—though, of course, Ihad no chance to examine her closely.”

  “Oh, no; the peach-bloom is there in abundance. Well, at all events,she’s a problem which it will be interesting to solve. By the way,what possessed you to accept Mrs. Berle’s i
nvitation to tea?”

  “What possessed me? Why should I have done otherwise?”

  “It will be an insufferable bore.”

  “Who was it that somewhat earlier in the afternoon preached me asermon on the duties we owe that identical Mrs. Berle?”

  Arthur spent the evening reading. Hetzel, peeping over his shoulder, sawthat the book of his choice was “The Inn Album” by Robert Browning.