CHAPTER IV
Running north from Storey’s Gate, the backs of its western houses abutting on the network of conduits which fed what is now in St. James’s Park called the Ornamental Water, but which was then “The Canal,” was a short road, or row, named Duke Street, in which was situated the building—subsequently the town home of Jeffreys, the filthy Fouquier Tinville of an earlier revolution—known as the Admiralty House. This mansion—or part of it, for the whole of it was of considerable dimensions—was, in fact, the headquarters of the recently reorganized Navy, and as such is mentioned here as being associated, however indirectly, with our narrative, inasmuch as it was to a member of its staff (a Mr. Samuel Pepys, not then long nominated to a clerkship of the acts) that Jack Bannister, the famous harpist, and a figure with whom we have hereafter to reckon, owed his “discovery,” in the exclusive as apart from the popular sense.
This man, sprung into evidence no one knew whence or when, had for months been perambulating the town as an itinerant musician, earning a precarious livelihood by playing before tavern doors, at street corners, and in marketplaces, and rich only in the soulful tribute of the many-headed, to whom he had come to be known by the appellation of “Sad Jack.” For sad, indeed, he appeared, both in face and habit; a lean, stoop-shouldered fellow, grimly austere, and always clothed in grey—grey hose, grey breeches, grey doublet, and grey hat, from the shadow of whose limp wide brim his eyes shone white, like pebbles gleaming through dark water. His figure was familiar to the streets as, his instrument strapped to his back, a folding-stool hung over his arm, and his soul patiently subdued to the philosophy which could find in unrecognition the surest proof of worth, he plodded his fortuitous way, with eye grown selective in the matter of “pitches,” and at his heels, perhaps, a string of ragamuffins, who, for the merest dole of his magnificence’s quality, would be ready to walk in his shadow to the town’s end. For sweet music hath through all the ages the “force” we wot of to “tame the furious beast,” and there was never a Pied Piper of genius but could count on his audience of rats to follow him over half the world if he pleased.
And this man had genius, for all it went unrecognized; but that was accident, and no moral whatever attaches to the fact. He communicated it from his finger-tips to the strings, hypostatically as it were, bestowing on them that gift of tongues which, speaking one language, speaks all. To his own ears it might appear that he was uttering no more than his native accents; to all others, gentile and barbarian, it seemed that he spoke in theirs. And that it is to command genius, the universal appeal, the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Yet outside this solitary faculty or inspiration there was nothing noteworthy about the creature but his gloom; and even that might have been no more than the shadow cast by the brighter half of his dual personality on the other. Born musicians are not as a rule remarkable for their intellectual brilliancy, and Sad Jack was, I am afraid, no exception to the rule. He was a dull fellow, in truth, in all that did not appertain to his exquisite art.
Now, it so happened that Fortune one bright spring morning directed the wandering harpist’s footsteps towards that quarter of the town which has already been mentioned, when, attracted perhaps by the sunny quiet of the spot, or by some suggestion in it of acoustic possibilities, he turned into Duke Street, and, choosing a convenient place, unslung his harp and stool, and stood for some moments glassily appraising the constitution of the little throng which had followed him into that retreat. He was inured by now to open-air criticism, and easily master of its moods. He could afford to tantalize expectation, sure of his ability to win the heart out of any crowd at the first touch of those long, nervous fingers of his which for the moment caressed his chin reflective, and with no more apparent sensibility in them than the fingers of a farmer calculating the profits on a flock of sheep. And, indeed, these were sheep, in their curiosity, in their shyness of the challenging human eye, in the way in which each refused to be thrust forward of his fellows, lest his prominent position should argue his readiness to be fleeced. But they all gaped and hung aloof, while the musician, anticipating their sure subjection, leisurely keyed up his strings to the concordant pitch; when at last, satisfied and in the humour, he began to play.
Then it was curious to note the hush which instantly fell upon the throng. Sure, of all the instruments of the senses—ear, eye, palate, nose, and finger—there is none so subtle in its mechanism as the first, nor so defiant of analysis in the way it transmits its message to the soul. The nature to which taste and vision and smell and touch may never prove holier than carnal provocations will yet find its divinity in music. Sound, perhaps, built the universe, as Amphion with his lyre built the walls of Thebes. Children of light, we may be children of sound also, if only we knew.
Now the kennel-sweeper leaned upon his broom, and dreamed of starry tracks where no rain ever fell; the cadger hated himself no longer; the little climbing-boy sat on the rim of the tallest chimney in all the world; the pretty sempstress hid with a little hand the furtive patch upon her chin, and flushed to know it there; the hackney coachman pulled on his rein and sat to listen, a piece of straw stuck motionless between his teeth. One and all they dwelt like spirits intoxicated, hearing of a new message and drunk with some wonderful joy of release. And then the sweet strains ended and they came to earth.
“It was like heaven,” said the sempstress, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with her apron.
“Was it, indeed?” said a full-bodied, good-humoured-looking gentleman, who had paused on his way to his official duties to listen, and who now pushed himself forward with an easy condescension. This was Mr. Pepys himself, no less, who, brought to a stop between sense and sensibility, had discovered no choice but to fall slave to those transports with which emotional music always filled him. Yet, astounded as he was by the performance, his eye—a pretty shrewd and noticing one—had been no less observant than his ear. He wrinkled it quizzically at the little beauty. “Was it?” says he. “Well, faith, pretty angel, you ought to know.”
He was very handsomely dressed in a blue jackanapes coat, then come into fashion, with silver buttons, a pair of fine white stockings, and a white plume in his hat; and he appeared if anything a little conscious of his finery. But whether it was from his assurance, which seemed unjustified of any exceptional good looks, or the thickness of his calves, which were stupendous, he failed to impress the sempstress, who, heaving a petulant shoulder at him, with a “La, sir, I know I am no angel!” tripped about and away, her nose in the air.
Mr. Pepys chuckled into his chin (though no more than twenty-eight, he possessed already an affluently double one), and, looking a moment after the retreating figure, turned to the musician, who all this while had been gazing into vacancy, his hat, placed crown downwards on the stones, his sole petitioner. But, before any could respond to that mute invitation, the new-comer had stooped to snatch up the dishonoured headgear, which he presented with a great bow to its owner.
“’Tis the privilege of kings, sir,” said he, “to go bonneted before their subjects. Prithee put this to a nobler use than a beggar’s bowl. ’Tis we that should doff to the prince of harpists,” and he suited the action to the word, standing bareheaded before the musician.
He, for his part, sat staring, doubtful whether he was honoured or derided.
“Sir,” he stammered, “have I not played to your liking?”
“So much so,” answered Pepys, “that my liking is you play no more on the streets. Will you be sensible, sir, and discuss this business? I can introduce you where your talent will receive justice; and I ask no other reward for my pains, which is indeed a duty. Sir, I confess your playing ravished me beyond anything I have heard. Rise, if you will, and walk with me.”
Looking dumbfoundered, the musician obeyed. He appeared on closer acquaintance a much younger man than the other had suspected, which was all in his favour as a prodigy. The offer, nevertheless, had been a quite disinterested one—a point to the fine gentleman’s credit; for in truth he was not above expecting commissions on occasion. But in the question of music he was always at his most altruistic. Now he conducted his discovery into the court of the Admiralty House, the better to shake off the throng which followed, and there put to him the few inquiries which came uppermost in his mind—as to the stranger’s genesis, to wit, his social standing, his calling, the circumstances which had thrown him, thus gifted and unpatronized, upon London streets, and so on. But he learned little to satisfy his curiosity. The man was reticent, awkward of speech, proud perhaps; and, beyond the facts that he was self-taught, had been a pedagogue in a country school, and had voluntarily abandoned an uncongenial task for one more to his fancy and potential well-being, the listener was able to glean little. But one thing stood out clear, and that was the genius which proclaimed this oddity as exalted a natural musician as any that had ever captured the heart of the world, and on that assurance Mr. Pepys proceeded. The upshot of this interview was that he came to introduce him, having a pretty wide acquaintance in professional quarters, among the right influential people, with the result that “Sad Jack,” from being a wandering street performer, became presently one of the most fashionable soloists in the town, with the command of a salary in proportion, and engagements covering the most popular resorts from Spring Gardens to the new Spa at Islington.
And with that we will leave him for the time being; while as to Mr. Pepys, having served his purpose, he must walk here and now out of the picture.