by A. A. Milne
But the instinct of authorship now shielded Ronnie.
"I never talk of my books, excepting to Helen, until they are finished," he said.
"Quite right," agreed Aubrey, cordially. "But you might tell me why this one took you to Central Africa. Is it a book of travels?"
"No; it is a love-story. But the scene is laid in wild places—ah, such places! One cannot possibly understand, until one gets there and does it, what it is like to leave civilisation behind, and crawl into long grass thirteen feet high!"
"It sounds weirdly fascinating," remarked Aubrey. "So unusual a setting, must mean a remarkable plot."
"It is the strongest thing I have done yet," said Ronnie, with enthusiasm.
Aubrey smiled, surveying Ronnie's eager face with slow enjoyment. He was mentally recalling phrases from reviews he had written for various literary columns, on Ronnie's work. Already he began wording the terse sentences in which he would point out the feebleness and lack of literary merit, in "the strongest thing" Ronnie had done yet. It might be well to know something more about it.
"It will be very unlike your other books," he suggested.
"Yes," explained Ronnie, expanding. "You see they were all absolutely English; just of our own set, and our own surroundings. I wanted something new. I couldn't go on letting my hero make love in an English garden."
"If you wanted a variety," suggested Aubrey Treherne, "you might have let him make love in another man's garden. Stolen fruits are sweet! There is always a fascination about trespassing."
"No, thank you," said Ronnie. "That would be Paradise Lost."
"Or Paradise Regained," murmured Aubrey.
"I think not. Besides—Helen reads my books."
"Oh, I see," sneered Aubrey. "So your wife draws the line?"
"I don't know what you mean," replied Ronnie. "Falsehood, frailty, and infidelity, do not appeal to me as subjects for romance. But, if they did, I certainly should not feel free to put a line into one of my books which I should be ashamed to see my own wife reading."
"Oh, safe and excellent standard!" mocked Aubrey Treherne. "No wonder you go down with the British public."
"I think, if you don't mind," said Ronald, with some heat, "we will cease to discuss my books and my public."
"Then there is but one subject left to us," smiled Aubrey—"the Infant of Prague! Let us concentrate our attention upon this entirelycongenial topic. I wonder how long this dear child has remained dumb. I have seen many fine instruments in my time, West, but I am inclined to think your 'cello is the finest I have yet come across. Do you mind if I tune it, and try the strings?"
Ronnie's pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled.
"Do," he said. "I am grateful. I do not even know the required notes."
Aubrey, leaning forward, carefully lifted the instrument, resting it against his knees. He took a tuning-fork from his pocket.
"It is tuned in fifths," he said. "The open strings are A, D, G, C. You can remember them, because they stand for 'Allowable Delights Grow Commonplace'; or, read the other way up: 'Courage Gains Desired Aims.'"
With practised skill he rapidly tightened the four strings into harmony; then, after carefully rosining the bow, rasped it with uncertain touch across them. The Infant squealed, as if in dire pain. Ronnie winced, obviously restraining himself with an effort from snatching his precious 'cello out of Aubrey's hands.
It did not strike him as peculiar that a man who played the violin with ease, should not be able to draw a clear tone from the open strings of a 'cello.
"I don't seem to make much of it," said Aubrey. "The 'cello is a difficult instrument to play, and requires long practice." And again he rasped the bow across the strings.
The Infant's wail of anguish gained in volume.
Ronnie sprang up, holding out eager hands. "Let me try," he said. "It must be able to make a better sound than that!"
As he placed the 'cello between his knees, a look of rapt content came into his face. He slipped his left hand up and down the neck, letting his fingers glide gently along the strings.
Aubrey watched him narrowly.
Ronnie lifted the bow; then he paused. A sudden remembrance seemed to arrest the action in mid-air.
He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach of the tempting strings.
"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play, must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound the open strings."
He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation brightening in his face.
Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had unconsciously assumed.
Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across the silver depths of lower C.
A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once more.
Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in short sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's cousin, in the chair opposite.
Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it across G.
G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, he sounded A.
The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness and power.
"Helen, oh, Helen!" said Ronnie.
Then he looked up, and saw Aubrey Treherne.
He laughed, rather unsteadily. "I thought I was at home," he said. "For the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my 'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?"
"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that you—who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before—can set the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery. Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is perfectly clear."
"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly.
"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the 'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years; only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could not have left the place without the Infant in your possession."
Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright.
"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't think Helen would like it, and I am perfectly certain Helen would not believe it."
"You cannot refuse to believe a truth because it does not happen to appeal to your wife," said Aubrey. "Grasp it clearly yourself; then educate her up to a proper understanding of the matter. All of us who are worth anything in this world have lived before—not once, nor twice, but many times. We bring the varied experiences of all previous existences, unconsciously to bear upon and to enrich this one. Have you not often heard the expression 'A born musician'? What do we mean by that? Why, a man born with a knowledge, a sense, an experience, of music, who does not require to go through the mill of learning all the rudiments before music can express itself through him, because the soul of music is in him. He plays by instinct—some folk call it inspiration. Technical, skill he may have to acquire—his fingers are new to it. The understanding of notation he may have to master again—the brain he uses consciously is also of fresh construction. But the sub-conscious self, the Ego of the man, the real eternal soul of him, leaps back with joy to the thing he has done perfectly before. He is a born musician; just as John the Baptist was a born prophet, because, into the little body prepared by Zacharias and Elisabeth, came the great Ego of Elijah reincarnate; to reappear as a full-grown prophet on the banks o
f the Jordan—the very spot from which he had been caught away, his life-work only half-accomplished, nine centuries before. Even our good Helen, if she knows her Bible, could hardly question this, remembering Whom it was Who said: 'If ye will receive it, this isElijah which was for to come; and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed.'"
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Ronnie. "What a theory! But indeed Helen would question it; and not only so, but she would be exceedingly upset and very much annoyed."
"Then Helen would fully justify the 'If' of the greatest of all teachers. She would come under the heading of those who refuse to receive a truth, however clearly and unmistakably expressed."
"Lor!" exclaimed Ronnie, in undisguised perplexity. "You have completely cornered me. But then I never set up for being a theologian."
"No; you are a born artist and musician. Music, tone, sound, colour, vibrate in every page of your romances. Had your parents taught you harmony, the piano, and the fiddle, your music would have burst forth along its normal lines. As they merely taught you the alphabet and grammar, your creative faculty turned to literature; you wrote romances full of music, instead of composing music full of romance. It is a distinction without a difference. But, now that you have found your mislaid 'cello, and I am teaching you to KNOW YOURSELF, you will do both."
Ronald stared across at Aubrey. His head was throbbing. Every moment he seemed to become more certain that he had indeed, many times before, held the Infant of Prague between his knees.
But there was a weird, uncanny feeling in the room. Helen seemed to walk in, to seat herself in the empty chair; and, leaning forward, to look at him steadily, with her clear earnest eyes. She seemed to repeat impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you should trust."
"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?"
Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval.
"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it as a time of preparation for the next."
Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence is a preparation for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this."
Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his own.
"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said.
"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which preceded this, Helen was probably my wife, while youwere a beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding."
"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing blow, upon Aubrey. "Damned old shoe-buckle yourself! Helen was never your wife! More likely you blacked her boots and mine!"
"Oh, hush!" smiled Aubrey, in contemptuous amusement. "Excellent young men who make innocent love in rose-gardens, never say 'damn.' And in those days, dear boy, we did not use shoe-blacking. Pray calm yourself, and sit down. You are upsetting the internal arrangements of your Infant. If you swing a baby violently about, it makes it sick. Any old Gamp will tell you that."
Ronnie sat down; but solely because his knees suddenly gave way beneath him. The floor on which he was standing seemed to become deep sand.
"Keep calm," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Perhaps you would like to know my excellent warrant for concluding that Helen was my wife in a former life? She came very near to being my wife in this. She was engaged to me before she ever met you, my boy. Had it not been for the interference of that strong-minded shrew, Mrs. Dalmain, she would have married me. I had kissed my cousin Helen, as much as I pleased, before you had ever touched her hand."
The incandescent lights grew blood-red, leaping up and down, in wild, bewildering frolic.
Then they steadied suddenly. Helen's calm, lovely figure, in a shaft of sunlight, reappeared in the empty chair.
Ronnie handed the Infant to her; rose, staggered across the intervening space, and struck Aubrey Treherne a violent blow on the mouth.
Aubrey gripped his arms, and for a moment the two men glared at one another.
Then Ronnie's knees gave way again; his feet sank deeply into the sand; and Aubrey, forcing him violently backward, pinned him down in his chair.
"I would kill you for this," he whispered, his face very close to Ronnie's; blood streaming from his lip. "I would kill you for this, you clown! But I mean to kiss Helen again; and life, while it holds that prospect, is too sweet to risk losing for the mere pleasure of wiping you out. Otherwise, I would kill you now, with my two hands."
Then a black pulsating curtain rolled, in impenetrable folds, between Ronnie and that livid bleeding face, and he sank away—down—down—down—into silent depths of darkness and of solitude.
Aubrey Puts Down His Foot
Ronnie's first sensation as he returned to consciousness, was of extreme lassitude and exhaustion.
His eyelids lifted heavily; he had some difficulty in realising where he was.
Then he saw his 'cello, leaning against a chair; and, a moment later, Aubrey Treherne, lying back in the seat opposite, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.
"Hullo, West!" said Aubrey, kindly. "You put in your half-hour quite unexpectedly. You were trying, in a sleepy fashion, to tell me how you came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale unfinished."
Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin.
"Are you the better for your sleep?"
"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily.
Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it to Ronald.
"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up."
Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water.
He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings.
Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune.
"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey.
But Aubrey had expected this.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ."
"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie.
"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness.
He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note, then came back humming it.
Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking easily meanwhile.
"You see? You screw up the pegs—so. The notes are A, D, G, C."
"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly.
"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly."
Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief.
"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a 'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness—if I may coin a word—than an organ or a piano."
He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, filled the room.
"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am afraid t
hat is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open strings."
Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he asked.
"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your public."
"Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid nightmares."
"Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?"
"I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the following morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in town, and get down home to tea."
"To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey.
"Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it 'moated'? We do not boast a moat."
Aubrey laughed. "I suppose my thoughts had run to 'Mariana.' You remember? 'He cometh not,' she said; the young woman who grew tired of waiting. They do, sometimes, you know! I believe her grange was moated. All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be haunted. What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old place. I knew it well as a boy."
"You must come and stay with us," said Ronnie, with an effort.
"Thanks, dear chap. Delighted. Has Helen kept well during your absence?"
"Quite well. She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly long time when I could get no letters. Hullo!—I say!"
Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat.
"I found a letter from Helen at the Poste Restante, here; but owing to my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I haven't dropped it anywhere!"
He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in all his pockets.
Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring.
Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague.
