by Myrtle Reed
The Face of the Master
In a little town in Italy, there once lived an old violin maker, whosesole pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments which he hadmade. He had, indeed, a son, or rather a stepson, for his wife had beena pretty widow with this one child when he married her a year before.
Pedro was a dark little fellow, with great deep eyes which seemed tohold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He idolised his mother,but shrank from his father with a feeling of instinctive dislike.Perhaps the old man noticed this, though he was so absorbed in hiswork and in directing his careless assistants that he seemed entirelyoblivious to his surroundings.
The child was errand-boy for the little shop, and all his tasks werepatiently and cheerfully done. Occasionally, one of the workmen wouldpat him on the head, and he distinctly remembered one day when thelady next door, gave him a piece of candy.
Before he and his mother came to live in the little shop, he had neverseen a violin, and even now he could not be said to have heard one, forneither his father nor any of the workmen knew how to play;--they werequite content with putting the bridge in place, leaving the stringsto be adjusted in the neighbouring town where the instruments found aready sale.
One day, the last touch was given to an unusually fine instrument, andin a moment of pride, the old man fitted it with strings. He placedit under his chin and touched the strings softly with the bow. Faultythough the touch was, the answer was melody--a long sweet chord.
Pedro's eyes grew darker, and his little face was fearlessly upturnedto the man who held the singer of that wonderful song. In the ecstasyof the moment, his foot touched a valuable piece of wood upon the floor.
Crack! It became two pieces instead of one, and with a curse and ablow, the trembling child was pushed, head foremost, into his ownlittle room. A moment later he heard the key turn in the lock. Paleand frightened, he sank into a corner, but the memory of the sweetnesswas with him still and in his soul was the dawn of unspeakable light.
All was silent in the shop now, but shortly he heard the busy hum ofvoices and the old confused sound. Then above the din, the violinsounded again. He listened in wonder. That single chord had been arevelation, and as a sculptor sees in a formless stone the futurerealisation of a marble dream, so Pedro, guided unerringly by thatfaulty strain, saw through break and discord, the promise of a symphony.
He fell asleep that night haunted still by that strange sweet sound,and dreamed that it had been his fingers to which the strings hadanswered. _His_ fingers? He awoke with an intense longing in hischildish breast. Oh, to touch that dear brown thing! Oh, to hear againthe whisper of the music!
Though the sun had risen he was still in a dream, and, mingled with thenotes of the lark above his window, was the voice of the violin.
Presently his stepfather appeared in the doorway, and with more thanusual unkindness in his tone ordered him away on an errand. Pedrogladly went, and all that day tried ineffectually to conciliate theangry man by patience, gentleness, and obedience. Night came, andthough weary, he was sent on a still longer journey. He started withan important message from his father to the home of the man who was tofurnish wood for a lot of new violins. He had often been to the shop,but it was late now, the man must have gone home, and his house wasmuch farther away.
He dared not complain, however, and trudged wearily on. But with allhis fatigue, his heart was light, for he fancied there might be musicin the home toward which he was hastening. Some day, perhaps, he mighthear the blessed chords again! He would wait. Through his childishfancy flitted a dream of a symphony--the unthought melody which mightbe sleeping in those broken chords.
He delivered his message safely, and the man kindly showed him a shortcut home. It was very late, and the streets were still, but he was notafraid. He passed house after house that was gayly lighted, and lookedlongingly at the revelry within, but he hurried onward till he came toa little house in a side street.
Hark! He stopped suddenly. Out of the darkness came the sound ofmusic--was it a violin? Yes, no, it could not be. He crept closer tothe cottage. Then a burst of harmony came into his consciousness--long,sweet, silvery notes; a glad rush of sound that brought tears to hiseyes--a delicate half hushed whisper, and then the twinkle of a brook,with the twilight gentleness of a shadow. Clearer and stronger themusic grew, and the child's breath came in quick, short gasps. Thebrook was a river now, he could hear the swaying of the trees in theforest; the heart of the wind was in the music, and on it swept in gladresistless cadence, from the brook to the river, then down to the sea.A pause, a long low note, then a glorious vision of blue, as into therush of the song, there came the sweet, unutterable harmonies of theocean.
He was in ecstasy; he scarcely dared to move. Oh, could he but seewhence the music came! Could he look for a moment only, upon the faceof the master! The moon came out from behind a cloud, and the childlooked up. At the open window he saw an old man with deep-set eyes,a kindly smile, and long white hair that hung down to his shoulders.He held a violin in his hand, but the picture needed not this touch totell the child who it was that had made this wonderful music, for hefelt that he now looked upon the face of the master.
With a sigh, the old man again placed the instrument in position, anddrew the bow across the strings. The boy trembled. In slow, measuredsweetness the music came--a deep wonderful harmony that held himspellbound. There was a tender cadence that swayed the player's soul,and into the theme crept the passionate pain of one who had loved andlost.
The child knew that the man was suffering--that music like that couldonly come from an aching heart. With double notes, in a minor key, themaster played on; then the violin slipped to the floor unheeded, andthe old man laid his head on the window sill, and wept like a child.
Pedro crept away; he could bear no more. The glory had entered into hissoul. He went noiselessly to bed, but he heard still that marvellousmusic and saw again the pain-shadowed face of the master.
Oh, could he but touch the magic strings! Could he but play one noteof the wondrous song! An idea seized him--he would try sometime. Ina transport of joy he fell asleep, and dreamed all night long of theheavenly strains. He saw the clear deep blue of the ocean, he heard thewind symphonies in the forest, and always, too, before him was thatwhite suffering face.
The next day he was scarcely himself. He moved about as if he stillslept, while his eyes were unusually sad and thoughtful. At night hecould not sleep, and after making sure that every one else was in deepslumber, he slipped quietly out into the shop. The moon showed himwhere to go, and at length he picked up the new violin which had takenso long to finish, and which was the finest his father had ever made.Where should he go? Outdoors, assuredly. He went softly out into themoonlight and down to the brook which was some distance from the house.
The silence, the beauty, the witchery of it all, was overwhelming. Agentle breeze swayed the tree tops, and, from the instrument in hishand, drew forth ?olian music. He started, placed it in position,and drew the bow across the wind-swept strings. His touch awakenedthe sleeping voice, and through his soul surged again the long, sweetchords that had made him glad, and shown him through the broken bits ofmelody, the grandeur of the symphony. Tenderly, tremblingly, he touchedthe strings again, and another chord, a minor, struck deep into hisheart.
Without thought or knowledge of the art he still blundered on, knowingnaught save that it was _his_ fingers that made a wild, delirious,rapturous sound, and seeing only the remembered vision of the master'sface.
Conscious of nothing else, he did not see that the sun had risen.Suddenly he looked up. His father stood before him with a strangeexpression on his face. The terrified child dropped the instrument toward off a blow, but the father said, with a tremor in his voice: "Isit so, my boy? Are you then a musician? You shall have lessons; I shallgive you a violin; we go to-day to see the master. Ah, the music! It ismost wonderful!"
The boy was dumb with astonishment. To learn? And who was the master?Tha
t afternoon he dressed himself in his best garments, which wereworn only on festal occasions, and with his father went on the gladdesterrand of his life.
The master! Could it be? The child's heart almost stopped beating.Yes, down the little street they turned and went up to the door of thecottage. He could not speak.
Presently he found himself in a plainly furnished little room, andheard footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and Pedro looked up tosee those deep-set eyes that seemed to smile down at him.
The father rose, and bowing low, he said: "Signor, I would like my sonto play the violin--you are a teacher--he will be a musician. I have nomoney, Signor, but if you teach my boy how to play, I will make you aviolin--the finest in the world."
The master was about to refuse; his old violin was a good one, and hedid not like to teach. He turned away hastily, but he caught a glimpseof the child's uplifted face. His soul was in his eyes, and in theirdepths the great artist saw an unutterable longing. He was touched."Child," he said, "would you like to play?"
He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The touch and the kindly tonethrilled him unspeakably. To play? To hear again that infinite music?Glad tears rushed to his eyes and his only answer was a sob.
"Ah, yes," the man's voice was tender. "You love it; I will teach you.Come to-morrow at this hour and we shall begin."
Pedro went home, wild with delight. To play! To see the master's face!Ah, it was too much! All night long he dreamed of that deliciousmelody, and the dear old head with its crown of silver hair that seemedlike a benediction.
His father gave him a little old violin. To him? Was it all his own?"And when you can play, my boy," he said, "you shall have the 'Beauty'."
Pedro's first lessons were a revelation. His face was a study for apainter, and the teacher saw that he had before him the promise ofan artist. He gave himself willingly to the task and soon learned todearly love his eager pupil.
And Pedro? No task was too hard, no study too difficult, no practicetoo long and tedious, if he might please his good old friend; and evenwhile he struggled with the difficulties of technique, he never losthope or patience, for before him always like a guiding star, was theserene white face of the master.
So the years went by, and all Italy was being searched for the finestwood that grew--for the sharpest tools. The wood for the master'sviolin must be well seasoned--it would take a long time--the longer,the better. For centuries the old tree had listened to wind, and river,and bird; the sounds of the forest were interwoven with its fibre, andnow it must give up its buried music in answer to the strings of theviolin.
The childish stature was changed to that of manhood, and still theteacher found in Pedro a devoted pupil. The youth had developed in manyways, but the artist seemed to be little changed. A little more bent,perhaps, but the same sweet soul.
Pedro had the "Beauty" but the master's violin was not yet finished.He never asked for it, never spoke of it; in the delight of Pedro'sachievement and greater promise, perhaps he had forgotten the promiseof the old violin maker.
But the old man was growing feeble. A change was coming and the youngman felt it too. He went one day for his lesson, and the housekeepermet him at the door with her finger on her lip. Hush! The teacher wasill. But he would like to see Pedro for a few minutes.
He went in and spoke tenderly to the old friend, whose eyes shone withso much love for his pupil--his boy--as he still called him. Pedrocould not stay long--it was too sad, and the tears were choking hisutterance. He went home with a sorrow-laden heart.
His father said to him as he entered: "The master's violin is at lastfinished, my son. See?"
He held up a beautifully fashioned instrument.
"You shall take it to him to-morrow. Ah, its tone! You will play?"
"No, father, I cannot. The master, he is ill--dying--perhaps. Oh! Icannot."
The old violin maker laid the instrument gently in its case. There weretears in his own eyes--"The teacher! Well, we must all die," and heturned to his work.
Night came, and Pedro tossed restlessly on his couch. About midnightthere was a rap on the front door of the shop.
He went quietly and opened it. There was a messenger from the oldhousekeeper. The teacher was sinking fast. The physician said he couldnot last until morning. He was out of pain, and he knew the end wasnear. Would Pedro come and play for him? The night seemed so long!Pedro dressed himself hurriedly. Oh, if he should be too late! Ashe went through the shop he passed the table where lay the master'sviolin. A sob came into his throat as he lifted it from the case. Hewould play that.
Out into the still street he went with almost breathless haste. Themoon shone gloriously, and the air was sweet with spring. He reachedthe cottage and went softly into the little room at the end of the hallwhere the man lay, looking like a piece of marble statuary, but stillbreathing. Pedro bent over him and looked lovingly into his face.
The master spoke with difficulty--"You are come, then, my friend--myboy?" The same old tenderness! Pedro could not answer. "You will playto me? The end is so near, the night seems so long--play to me, my boy."
The feeble man turned his face to the open window, which was on alevel with his couch. With a sigh of content, he laid his head uponthe sill. Pedro started. The position, the moonlight, oh, that far-offnight! Again he was a child crouching in the darkness, and in the oldecstasy beneath that very window--he heard again that infinitely sadmusic, and saw again the white suffering face.
He placed the instrument in position; step by step, unerringly, hefollowed the notes of the marvellous melody, for was not the musicianbefore him, teaching him how to play it?
The grey head turned towards the player--a strange new light in hiseyes. But seeing only the vision of his childhood the young man playedon and on, and somehow into the symphony crept all the love and sadnessof a life time. As he played he threw his whole soul into the music.Oh, the indescribable sweetness of the master's violin! At last hisvision faded, and he saw the massive head drop on the same old sill--heheard once more the sobs that come with tears.
The music ended with a broken chord, and he looked up--to find hisfriend gazing at him with ineffable happiness. "My boy, where did youlearn that? It is one of my own compositions--I have never written itall down--where--where did you learn it?"
Pedro drew his chair to the couch, and, clasping the withered hand inboth his own that were strong and young, and beating with life, hetold the story. So long ago that he was but a child, he had heard theartist play it. He had known even then that it was born of sorrow,and to-night that far-off time came back into the moonlight, with themaster's face. He had not played from memory only, for the teacher hadshown him some of the notes and he had but followed.
The man feebly raised his head and said brokenly: "My boy, you areright; I had a sorrow. You are young, but you will understand."
No longer master and pupil, they were now friend and friend.
"I loved her--the best of all the world. But with the end only, camethe peace which had been denied me in life. She loved my music and Iplayed to her when she lay dying. She did not love me as I loved her--Iwas her friend, always; 'her dear, dear friend,' she used to say.
"But," and the voice grew stronger, "my arms were around her when theangels came--with my kisses on her lips she went to her grave--thereare violets there--she loved them so--for thirty years I have watchedthem. Her heart has blossomed into them, and they come from her to me.
"She was so pure--so sweet--and her last word was for me. Such a littleword! With her last strength, she put her arms around me, and drew myface down to hers--such a little word--it was a whisper--_Sweetheart_!She loved me then--I know she did. Oh, love, could I break the bonds ofthe grave!" He was silent for a moment. "Now you know--you understand.You will play it again."
The night was deepening toward the dawn. Once more Pedro took theviolin--and played the melody, instinct with the old, old story oflove and pain. The man's eyes were closed; he lay contentedly andpe
acefully as a child. As the boy played, the darkness waned, and ashe finished, not with a broken chord, but with a minor that some wayseemed completion, the first faint lines of light came into the easternsky.
The master turned to the window again: "See, the day breaks." The skygrew gold and crimson, but a more celestial light seemed to live aroundthe grey head, as if, in rifts of heaven, he saw her waiting for him.
He stretched his trembling hands to the east, and whispered: "Yes, I amcoming! Coming! You love me then? Ah, yes! Beyond the sunset--the dawn;I am coming--coming--coming--such a little word--_Sweetheart_!"
A look of unspeakable rapture; it was transfiguration; then the deepblue eyes were closed upon the scenes of earth. The first ray of thesun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon thecouch. The sobbing old housekeeper came toward them, but Pedro motionedher away.
He knelt at the bedside, his own face shining with something of thatcelestial glow, and man though he was, with quivering lips he kissedagain and again the dear white face of the master.
A Reasonable Courtship
