The Master's Violin

by Myrtle Reed

  II

  "Mine Cremona"

  Lynn went up the hill with a long, swinging stride. The morning was inhis heart and it seemed good to be alive. His blood fairly sang in hispulses, and his cheery whistle was as natural and unconscious as thecall of the robin in the maple thicket beyond.

  The German housewives left their work and came out to see him pass, forstrangers in West Lancaster were so infrequent as to cause extendedcomment, and he left behind him a trail of sharp glances and noddingheads. The entire hill was instantly alive with gossip which buzzed backand forth like a hive of liberated bees. It was a sturdy dame near thesummit who quelled it, for the time being.

  "So," she said to her next-door neighbour, "I was right. He will begoing to the Master's."

  The word went quickly down the line, and after various speculationsregarding his possible errand, the neglected household tasks were takenup and the hill was quiet again, except for the rosy-cheeked childrenwho played stolidly in their bits of dooryards.

  Lynn easily recognised the house, though he had seen it but dimly thenight before. It was two stories in height, but very small, and, in someoccult way, reminded one of a bird-house. It was perched almost upon theledge, and its western windows overlooked the valley, filled withtossing willow plumes, the winding river, half asleep in its mantle ofgrey and silver, and the range of blue hills beyond.

  It was the only house upon the hill which boasted two front entrances.Through the shining windows of the lower story, on a level with thestreet, he saw violins in all stages of making, but otherwise, the roomwas empty. So he climbed the short flight of steps and rang the bell.

  The wire was slack and rusty, but after two or three trials a mournfulclang came from the depths of the interior. At last the door was opened,cautiously, by a woman whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingersbetrayed her recent occupation.

  "I beg your pardon," said Irving, making his best bow. "Is Herr Kaufmannat home?"

  "Not yet," she replied, "he will have gone for his walk. You will becoming in?"

  She asked the question as though she feared an affirmative answer. "If Imay, please," he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon the mat. "Doyou expect him soon?"

  "Yes." She ushered him into the front room and pointed to a chair. "Youwill please excuse me," she said.

  "Certainly! Do not let me detain you."

  Left to himself, he looked about the room with amused curiosity. Thefurnishings were a queer combination of primitive American ideas andmodern German fancies, overlaid with a feminine love of superfluousornament. The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in everything, andpurples, reds, and yellows were closely intermingled. The exquisiteneatness of the place was its redeeming feature.

  Apparently, there were two other rooms on the same floor--a combinedkitchen and dining-room was just back of the parlour, and a smallerroom opened off of it. Lynn was meditating upon Herr Kaufmann'shousehold arrangements, when a wonderful object upon the table in thecorner attracted his attention, and he went over to examine it.

  Obviously, it had once been a section of clay drainage pipe, but in itssublimated estate it was far removed from common uses. It had beensmeared with putty, and, while plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails,keys, clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other things not usuallyassociated with drainage pipes. When dry, it had been given furtherdistinction by two or three coats of gold paint.

  A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near the top of it, was renderedso ridiculous by the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, influencedby the sound of the scrubbing-brush close at hand, he endeavoured tocover it with a cough. He was too late, however, for, almostimmediately, his hostess appeared in the doorway.

  "Mine crazy jug," she said, with gratified pride beaming from everyfeature.

  "I was just looking at it," responded Lynn. "It is marvellous. Did youmake it yourself?"

  "Yes, I make him mineself," she said, and then retreated, blushing withinnocent pleasure.

  Not knowing what else to do, he went back to his chair and sat downagain, carefully avoiding the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses.Outside, the street was deserted. He wondered what type of a man it waswho could live in the same house with a "crazy jug" and play as HerrKaufmann played, only last night. Then he reflected that the room hadbeen dark, and smiled at his foolish fancy.

  A square piano took up one whole side of the room, and there were twoviolins upon it. Unthinkingly, Lynn investigated. The first one was agood instrument of modern make, and the other--he caught his breath ashe took it out of its case. The thin, fine shell was the beautiful bodyof a Cremona, enshrining a Cremona's still more beautiful soul.

  He touched it reverently, though his hands trembled and his face wasaglow. He snapped a string with his finger and the violin answered witha deep, resonant tone, but before the sound had died away, there was anexclamation of horror in his ears and a firm grip upon his arm.

  "Mine brudder's Cremona!" cried the woman, her eyes flashing lightningsof anger. "You will at once put him down!"

  "I beg a thousand pardons! I did not realise--I did not mean--I did notunderstand----" He went on with confused explanations and apologieswhich availed him nothing. He stood before her, convicted and shamed, asone who had profaned the household god.

  Wiping her hands upon her apron, she went to her work-box, took out herknitting, and sat down between Lynn and the piano. The chair was hardand uncompromising, with an upright back, but she disdained even thatsupport and sat proudly erect.

  There was no sound save the click of the needles, and she kept her eyesfixed upon her work. After an awkward silence, Lynn made one or twotentative efforts toward conversation, but each opening provedfruitless, and at length he seriously meditated flight.

  The approach to the door was covered, but there were plenty of windows,and it would be an easy drop to the ground. He smiled as he saw himself,mentally, achieving escape in this manner and running all the way home.

  "I wonder," he mused, "where in the dickens 'mine brudder' is!"

  The face of the woman before him was still flushed and the movement ofthe needles betrayed her excitement. He noted that she wore no weddingring and surmised that she was a little older than his mother. Herfeatures were hard, and her thin, straight hair was brushed tightly backand fastened in a little knot at the back of her head. It was not unlikea door knob, and he began to wonder what would happen if he should turnit.

  His irrepressible spirits bubbled over and he coughed violently into hishandkerchief, feeling himself closely scrutinised meanwhile. Thesituation was relieved by the sound of footsteps and the vigorous slamof the lower door.

  Still keeping the piano, with its precious burden, within range of hervision, Fraeulein Kaufmann moved toward the door. "Franz! Franz!" shecalled. "Come here!"

  "One minute!" The voice was deep and musical and had a certain lyricquality. When he came up, there was a conversation in indignant Germanwhich was brief but sufficient.

  "I can see," said Lynn to himself, "that I am not to study with HerrKaufmann."

  Just then he came in, gave Lynn a quick, suspicious glance, took up theCremona, and strode out. He was gone so long that Lynn decided toretreat in good order. He picked up his hat and was half way out of hischair when he heard footsteps and waited.

  "Now," said the Master, "you would like to speak with me?"

  He was of medium height, had keen, dark eyes, bushy brows, ruddy cheeks,and a mass of grey hair which he occasionally shook back like a mane. Hehad the typical hands of the violinist.

  "Yes," answered Lynn, "I want to study with you."

  "Study what?" Herr Kaufmann's tone was somewhat brusque. "Manners?"

  "The violin," explained Irving, flushing.

  "So? You make violins?"

  "No--I want to play."

  "Oh," said the other, looking at him sharply, "it is to play! Well, Ican teach you nothing."

  He rose, as though to intimate that the interview was at an en
d, butLynn was not so easily turned aside. "Herr Kaufmann," he began, "I havecome hundreds of miles to study with you. We have broken up our home andhave come to live in East Lancaster for that one purpose."

  "I am flattered," observed the Master, dryly. "May I ask how you haveheard of me so far away as many hundred miles?"

  "Why, everybody knows of you! When I was a little child, I can remembermy mother telling me that some day I should study with the great HerrKaufmann. It is the dream of her life and of mine."

  "A bad dream," remarked the violinist, succinctly. "May I ask yourmother's name?"

  "Mrs. Irving--Margaret Irving."

  "Margaret," repeated the old man in a different tone. "Margaret."

  There was a long silence, then the boy began once more. "You'll take me,won't you?"

  For an instant the Master seemed on the point of yielding,unconditionally, then he came to himself with a start. "One moment," hesaid, clearing his throat. "Why did you lift up mine Cremona?"

  The piercing eyes were upon him and Lynn's colour mounted to histemples, but he met the gaze honestly. "I scarcely know why," heanswered. "I was here alone, I had been waiting a long time, and it hasalways been natural for me to look at violins. I think we all do thingsfor which we can give no reason. I certainly had no intention of harmingit, nor of offending anybody. I am very sorry."

  "Well," sighed the Master, "I should not have left it out. Strangersseldom come here, but I, too, was to blame. Fredrika takes it toherself; she thinks that she should have left her scrubbing and sat withyou, but of that I am not so sure. It is mine Cremona," he went on,bitterly, "nobody touches it but mineself."

  His distress was very real, and, for the first time, Irving felt a throbof sympathy. However unreasonable it might be, however weak andchildish, he saw that he had unwittingly touched a tender place. All thelove of the hale old heart was centred upon the violin, wooden,inanimate--but no. Nothing can be inanimate, which is sweetheart andchild in one.

  "Herr Kaufmann," said Lynn, "believe me, if any act of mine could wipeaway my touch, I should do it here and now. As it is, I can only askyour pardon."

  "We will no longer speak of it," returned the Master, with quietdignity. "We will attempt to forget."

  He went to the window and stood with his back to Irving for a long time."What could I have done?" thought Lynn. "I only picked it up and laid itdown again--I surely did not harm it."

  He was too young to see that it was the significance, rather than thetouch; that the old man felt as a lover might who saw his beloved in thearms of another. The bloom was gone from the fruit, the fragrance fromthe rose. For twenty-five years and more, the Cremona had been sacredlykept.

  The Master's thoughts had leaped that quarter-century at a single bound.Again he stood in the woods beyond East Lancaster, while the sky wasdark with threatening clouds and the dead leaves scurried in frightbefore the north wind. Beside him stood a girl of twenty, her face whiteand her sweet mouth quivering.

  "You must take it," she was saying. "It is mine to do with as I please,and no one will ever know. If anyone asks, I can fix it someway. It ispart of myself that I give you, so that in all the years, you will notforget me. When you touch it, it will be as though you took my hand inyours. When it sings to you, it will be my voice saying: 'I love you!'And in it you will find all the sweetness of this one short year. Allthe pain will be blotted out and only the joy will be left--the joy thatwe can never know!"

  Her voice broke in a sob, then the picture faded in a mist of blindingtears. Dull thunders boomed afar, and he felt her lips crushed for aninstant against his own. When clear sight came back, the storm wasraging, and he was alone.

  Irving waited impatiently, for he was restless and longed to get away,but he dared not speak. At last the old man turned away from the window,his face haggard and grey.

  "You will take me?" asked Lynn, with a note of pleading in his question.

  "Yes," sighed the Master, "I take you. Tuesdays and Fridays at ten.Bring your violin and what music you have. We will see what you havedone and what you can do. Good-bye."

  He did not seem to see Lynn's offered hand, and the boy went out, sorelytroubled by something which seemed just outside his comprehension. Hewalked for an hour in the woods before going home, and in answer toquestions merely said that he had been obliged to wait for some time,but that everything was satisfactorily arranged.

  "Isn't he an old dear?" asked Iris.

  "I don't know," answered Lynn. "Is he?"