The Girls of St. Cyprian's: A Tale of School Life

by Angela Brazil

  CHAPTER III

  The Story of a Violin

  Mildred Lancaster, with whose history this book is largely concerned,was an orphan, and had been brought up from her babyhood by an uncle andaunt who had no children of their own. Her uncle, Dr. Graham, was a busyman with a large practice, who managed nevertheless to spare a littleleisure to keep up the scientific side of his profession. He was aprominent member of Health Congresses, Sanitary Commissions, and MedicalSocieties, and was full of schemes for the better housing of thelabouring classes, the opening of gardens and pleasure-grounds incrowded slum districts, the care of cripples and pauper children, or anyquestion which affected the well-being of the poor people among whom hiswork chiefly lay. In all these things Mrs. Graham was his most earnestright hand.

  She had a very strong sense of her responsibility towards those who wereless-well equipped for the world's battles than herself, and she triedto take some of the light and beauty and culture of her own well-orderedlife into those sad, sordid homes, where no dawn of higher things hadever shone. It was quiet, unostentatious work, that sometimes seemed toshow small reward for the trouble spent over it, but she went onpatiently all the same, knowing that the result might often be there,even if she were not able to see it herself.

  To both Dr. and Mrs. Graham, Mildred stood in the place of a daughter.She could remember no other home, and knew no other friends, for hermother's relations had hitherto ignored the very fact of her existence.It was a happy little household, with a great deal of love in it, butthe life was plain and simple, with few luxuries or extra indulgences.The Grahams were not rich people, and everything that they did not needfor absolute necessities was devoted to helping forward the many causesthey had at heart. On Mildred's education, however, they spared noexpense. They sent her to St. Cyprian's College because it was the onlyschool where she could spend an adequate time on the music which theyhoped might some day prove to be her career, and they were preparedlater on to give her the best possible advantages.

  On the very afternoon when Ella Martin and Kitty Fletcher were talkingabout her, Mildred, quite unconscious of their concern on her behalf,was at home, trying to make up some arrears on her practising sheet. Thecosy upstairs sitting-room of the corner house in Meredith Terrace was acheerful place, though the carpet was worn and the curtains were faded.The long rows of shelves on either side of the fire-place wereoverflowing with books; on the walls hung prints, etchings, andwater-colour sketches, most of them unframed, and pinned here and there,without any definite order as to arrangement, so as to secure the bestlight available. An unfinished red-chalk drawing stood on an easel bythe open piano, a pot full of tulips made a rich spot of colour againstthe old green table-cloth, and a large grey Persian cat slept peacefullyand luxuriously in the arm-chair.

  It was a congenial atmosphere for study, and Mildred, who stood with herviolin in the bow-window, had the dreamy, far-away expression in hereyes which, to those who knew her, meant that her artistic side wasuppermost. Her long, thin, supple fingers were bringing real music fromher instrument. Though her gaze might be fixed upon the piece placedupon the stand before her, she was paying no heed to it, for thesnatches of melody, now bright and joyful, now soft and sad, whichfloated through the room were of her own improvising, a kind ofreflection of the spring sunshine and the twittering of the birdsoutside that found its expression in the notes which flowed so richlyand easily that it almost seemed as if her violin were speaking with ahuman voice. One cannot live long, however, in a world composed only ofsweet sounds, and Mildred found her day-dream quickly and suddenlydispelled by the opening of the door and the brisk entrance of her aunt.

  "Mildred, dear! Do you call this practising? I thought you had promisedme to keep strictly to your concerto. When I last heard it there werestill a great many mistakes, and I'm afraid Herr Hoffmann will beanything but satisfied when you go for your next lesson."

  Thus brought back to the practical side of life, Mildred put down herviolin with a sigh.

  "Such a lovely idea came into my head, Tantie! I just had to try itover at once, for fear it should go out again. I thought I might enjoymyself for ten minutes!"

  Mrs. Graham did not look approving.

  "How many scales and arpeggios have you played?" she enquired gravely.

  "Well, not any yet. I can do them after tea."

  "And your exercise?"

  "Oh! there'll be plenty of time to learn that before next Wednesday.It's quite an easy one."

  "It may be easy, but it will need practice all the same. Have you triedyour new piece?"

  "The 'Fruehlingslied'? It's much too difficult. I shall take it back andtell Herr Hoffmann I can't possibly manage it. It's one of thoseterrible things that go with an orchestra. I simply hate them. TheProfessor plays to represent the other instruments, and he's always morethan usually fussy and particular. He scolds most abominably if I play afalse note, or happen to come in at the wrong place."

  "I'm very glad to hear it. I think you need more scolding than you getat home."

  Mildred screwed up her mouth with a rather humorous expression, thenflung her arms round her aunt's neck and gave her an impulsive hug.

  "Sweetest darling little Tantie, you can't scold! So please don't beginto try. I know I'm horribly bad. I ought to have been grinding away atthat wretched concerto all the time, but it isn't very pretty, and ithas such nasty catchy bits in it. I like making up pieces for myself somuch better than proper practising. The tunes just come into my head,and then I feel as if I must play them over before I forget them. If Iwait, they're gone, and I never can catch them again."

  "I don't blame you, dear child, for liking to compose. What I find faultwith is that you always want to shirk the hard part of the work. Scalesand exercises are not pleasant, I own, but they train your fingers in away which nothing else can do. How often has the Professor told youthat, I wonder?"

  "About fifteen dozen times, I dare say!" laughed Mildred, cajoling heraunt into one of the cosy basket-chairs which stood near the hearth, andinstalling herself in the other, with Godiva, the Persian cat, on herknee. "That doesn't make the scales and exercises any more interesting,though. It's no use, Tantie! I love music, but I detest the drudgery ofit. Why need I spend so much time over the part I don't like? Why can'tI just play my own tunes, and be happy?"

  "Because we all hope you are worthy of better things. Simply to amuseyourself is not the highest ideal, either in music or life. Your violinwas the only possession which your father could leave to you, and youmust think of it as an inheritance, not as a toy."

  "I know so little about my father," said Mildred, leaving her seat, andthrowing herself down on the hearth-rug, with her head against heraunt's knee. "You scarcely ever talk about him."

  "Because it's a sad remembrance, dear," said Mrs. Graham, stroking thegolden hair with a gentle hand. "I've shrunk from speaking of it before,and yet I have often felt lately that you ought to know the story. Iwould rather you heard it from me than learnt it from anyone who mighttell it to you with less sympathy than I should."

  She paused, with a far-away look in her eyes, as if memories of the pastwere living before her. For a moment or two there was silence in theroom, only broken by Godiva's purrs and the twittering of the birdsoutside.

  "Please go on!" said Mildred impatiently.

  "Your violin has a history," began Mrs. Graham. "You know already thatit is a very old and valuable one, made by Stradivarius himself, whoseskill was so marvellous that nobody since has ever been able to equalthe instruments which he turned out from his workshop at Cremona. Ican't tell you who was the earliest owner, or how many hands, long sincedead, have brought sweet music out of it; but when I first made itsacquaintance it was the most cherished possession of a strange oldgentleman who lived in the cathedral city where I was born. No one knewanything about Monsieur Strelezki, for though he had been an inhabitantof Dilchester for several years, he remained to the last as great amystery as on the day he arrived. His houseke
eper, an elderlyFrenchwoman, always alluded to him as 'Monsieur le Comte', and he wasgenerally believed to be a Polish nobleman, who for some politicalreason had been exiled from his native land. He spoke excellent English,and was apparently well off and accustomed to good society; yet he livedthe life of an absolute recluse, refusing to exchange visits with any ofhis neighbours, who, after their first curiosity had worn off, shunnedhim with an almost superstitious horror, whispering many tales about himunder their breath.

  TANTIE TELLS MILDRED THE HISTORY OF HER VIOLIN, WHICH ISA VERY OLD AND VALUABLE ONE MADE BY STRADIVARIUS HIMSELF.]

  "My brother and I would look with a kind of fascination at the gloomyold dwelling just outside the precincts which the Comte had bought, andat once surrounded with such a very high wall that it went in future bythe name of 'The Hidden House'. We used to pass it every day on our wayto school, and I remember how, by a mutual understanding, we alwayscrossed the road exactly at the corner near the lamp-post, so as toavoid walking too close to what, in our childish imagination, might bethe abode of an anarchist or worse. Your father was my only brother,five years younger than myself, my greatest companion, and my specialcharge after our mother's death. He had the most charming, lovable,careless, happy-go-lucky, and irresponsible disposition that I have everknown. I fear both my father and I spoilt him, for he was very winning,and when he would ask in his coaxing way it was difficult to refuse himanything. From a little child he had shown the most wonderful love formusic. He seemed to learn the piano almost by instinct, and his greatestamusement was to play by ear all the chants and anthems which were sungby the cathedral choir. An air once heard never escaped his memory, andhe would put such beautiful harmonies to it, and make such elaboratevariations upon it, that I have often listened to him with amazement.Our father was proud of his boy's talent, and, wishing him to play theorgan, made arrangements that he should take lessons from the cathedralorganist.

  "At first Bertram was pleased to have the great instrument respond tohis little fingers, but he found the stops and pedals were troublesomeand confusing to manage, and he did not make the progress we had hopedfor. His one longing was to learn the violin. He used to implore ourdancing-master to allow him to try the small instrument by which we weretaught to regulate the steps of our quadrilles and polkas, and he wouldeven bribe the blind old street musician who played before our house onSaturday mornings to lend him his fiddle and bow. There was no one inthe town, however, whom my father considered worthy to teach him, so hewas obliged to content himself with trying to pick out tunes on a guitarwhich had belonged to my mother, and which he had found stowed away inthe lumber-room. One day my brother and I were walking down the narrowpaved street on our way home from the cathedral, when, passing by themysterious 'Hidden House', we heard the wailing strains of a violin.Bertram at once stopped to listen, and seeing that the door in the highwall, which was generally fast locked, to-day stood open, he creptinside the garden, so that he might hear the better. I followed, to tryand persuade him to return, but I, too, was so attracted by theenchanting music which flowed through the open window that together westood concealed behind a syringa bush, almost holding our breath forpleasure.

  "I know now that it was a composition of Rubenstein's that Monsieur leComte was playing, but we had never heard it before. It was a style offoreign music quite new to us, and the wild romance, the weird beautyand pathos, the bewitching, haunting ring of the melody, rendered by amaster hand, together with the strangeness of the unusual rhythm, rousedmy brother to a degree of excitement I had never seen him show before.As the last soft notes sank quivering away, he rushed from hishiding-place, and running up the steps to the French window, dashedimpulsively into the room where Monsieur Strelezki stood with hisviolin.

  "'Oh, thank you! Thank you!' he cried. 'I've never heard anything sowonderful in all my life. Will you please tell me what it's called? Andoh! if you would play it over again!'

  "To say that the Comte was astonished will very poorly describe thescene that followed, but finding that the boy was in earnest, he bade usbe seated, and gave us such a bewildering and utterly charming selectionof quaint Polish and Hungarian airs that Bertram was wild with delight.He sealed a friendship then and there with Monsieur Strelezki, andwhenever he had a half-hour to spare he would hurry away to the 'HiddenHouse' to listen to more of the fascinating music.

  "It was perhaps only natural that the Comte, seeing my brother'senthusiasm, should offer to teach him the violin; and though my fatherwas somewhat doubtful about allowing him to accept so great a favourfrom our eccentric neighbour, he could not, in the end, resist Bertram'spleadings, so the lessons began. I think teacher and pupil enjoyed themequally, and the boy's progress was simply marvellous. He not onlylearned with a rapidity which astonished even his master, but about thistime he began to compose pieces himself, and could hardly contain hisjoy in this newly-discovered talent. I would often beg him to write themdown, as he was apt to forget them; but he did not like the trouble oftranscribing music, and would declare with a laugh that it did notmatter, as he always had a new one in his head. His school work sufferedvery much. He would spend over his violin hours which ought to have beengiven to preparing Greek and Latin, and my father was often angry overhis bad reports. It seemed little use, however, to scold him; he wasfull of promises of amendment, but he never kept any of them.

  "This had gone on for perhaps three years, when one day my brother wentround early to the 'Hidden House'. He found everything in a state ofconfusion and upset. Monsieur Strelezki had died suddenly of heartfailure during the night. The old housekeeper had discovered him, whenshe entered the dining-room in the morning, sitting, as she supposed,writing, with his violin on the table by his side; but the eyes bentover the paper were sightless, and the fingers that still held the penwere stiff and cold. On a half-sheet of note-paper he had written in ashaky hand:

  "'TO BERTRAM LANCASTER.

  "'Farewell, dear pupil and friend! The King of the Musicians has called me. We shall meet no more in this world. I bequeath you my Stradivarius. May it prove for you the key to fame. Remember always that there is only one secret of true success, and that is....'

  "But here the messenger had come for Monsieur le Comte, and he hadobeyed the summons, leaving the secret he had tried to tell for everuntold.

  "As my brother grew older his passion for music seemed only to increase.My father wished him to study law, so that he might in time give him apartnership in the steadygoing old-fashioned solicitor's practice whichhad been in our family for several generations, but Bertram utterlyrefused. He had set his heart on a musical career, and after a bitterquarrel with his father, he left home altogether, taking with him thesmall fortune he had inherited from our mother, and went away with theavowed intention of devoting himself to his violin.

  "'I feel I have a future before me, Alice,' he said, as he bade megood-bye. 'I shall solve the Comte's secret yet. If it was talent hereferred to' (and he flushed a little) 'I think I've my fair share ofthat, so perhaps the Stradivarius may really prove the key to fame, inspite of everything!'

  "It is a very sad part of the story that comes now, but I must tell itto you all the same. Bertram left us in high hopes, and for a time,while his enthusiasm was fresh, and the change still new, I believe hestudied hard at his music. But he had a curious lack of any real effortor steady concentrated purpose. He was always going to do great things,which somehow were never accomplished. I cannot tell you how many operasand oratorios he began to compose, which were to take the public bystorm; but none of them was ever finished, though the fragments which Iheard were of so rare a quality that they were fit to rank among theworks of men of genius. Sometimes he would be at the very height ofexaltation, and sometimes in the lowest depths of despair; there wereperiods of wild ambition, when he was determined to have the world athis feet, but they never lasted long enough to carry him through thewhole of an opera.

  "A few of his shorter compositions were published, a
nd were very highlythought of by musicians, and he had splendid opportunities of playing atconcerts and recitals. His appearances in public were always successful;yet he so often refused to fulfil his engagements, for no apparentreason except the whim of the moment, that the managers grew tired ofhim. He fell under the influence of bad companions, who led him toneglect his work, and to think of nothing but pleasure, and he had notthe moral courage to say 'No' to them. His little fortune was soonspent, and as my father refused to help him, he was obliged at last toearn his bread as a teacher of music. It was in this capacity that hemade the acquaintance of your mother, whose father, Sir John Lorraine,could not forgive her runaway match with one whom he considered utterlyunworthy of her, and forbade her name to be mentioned again in hispresence. You cannot remember her, Mildred, for she only lived longenough to put her little golden-haired baby into my arms, and beg me tobe a friend to it--a trust that I have never forgotten, both for yoursake and hers.

  "After this matters went from bad to worse. Your father, in his grief,took no trouble over his teaching, pupils slipped away, and he also lostthe post in an orchestra which for some time had been his chiefresource. I helped him to my uttermost, but it was little enough, afterall, that I could do for him. His health, never robust, seemed suddenlyto fail, and before the year was out he had died, broken-hearted, in theprime of his youth, the success he had dreamt of still unwon. I was withhim at the last, and as he put his poor worn hand in mine, he said:

  "'Alice, I discovered the Comte's secret too late! Give the Stradivariusto my child. It's the only inheritance I have to leave her. Perhaps mywasted life may teach her to use hers to better advantage, and some dayshe may meet with the fame and success that I always hoped for but nevergained.'"

  Mildred sat very silent for a moment or two when Mrs. Graham hadfinished her story.

  "What was the Comte's secret?" she asked at length, with a break in hervoice.

  "Perseverance and hard work. Talent is of very little use without these.Nothing can be gained in this world without taking pains, and anysuccess worth having must be at the cost of the best effort that's inus. Do you see why I've told you this to-day?"

  "Yes," replied Mildred thoughtfully. "I didn't know my violin had such ahistory. I loved it before, but I shall love it ten thousand timesbetter now. Tantie, I think I'll tussle with the 'Fruehlingslied' afterall. I believe if I really slave at it I can manage it. It'll behateful, but I declare I'll try, if I break every string, and wear mybow out in the attempt."

  "That's my brave girl! Shall we have a resolutions, not only for the'Fruehlingslied', but for all-round work at school? Miss Cartwright saysyou can do so well when you choose. Won't you promise?"

  "Honour bright, Tantie! I'll do my best!"