THE LION THAT HELPED [CANOVA]
"Tonin, Tonin, come out with us to the River! Luigi has built a raft, and we're going to pole it down to the second bridge."
Five boys, bareheaded, barefooted, dirty-faced, and joyful, grouped themselves before a mud-walled Alpine cabin, the last of a quaint village row, while Pablo, their leader, hailed some one within.
Instantly there appeared in the doorway a boy of their own age, clad as roughly and lightly as themselves. His blouse was loosened comfortably at the throat, his trousers were rolled well above the knee, and over these cool garments he wore a hempen working-apron which was held in place by a stout cord attached to its upper corners and passing about his neck. In one hand he held a small steel hammer, in the other a chisel.
"Come on, Tonin," repeated Pablo, pointing excitedly toward the brook.
The lad in the doorway shook his head and lifted his chisel meaningly, as though no additional explanation were needed.
"Oh, do, do!" urged the new-comers. "Leave your old stone-chipping for an hour and come with us. We'll let you pole all the time if you will."
"I can't," returned the other briefly.
"Please come! Come along!" insisted four alluring voices, but Pablo turned away impatiently.
"Leave that sullen Tonin alone! He'd rather bang away at his grandfather's stones than go with us on the jolliest jaunt we could name. Come on, and let him stay by himself."
Thereupon the boys ran swiftly down the adjoining slope, and Tonin Canova stepped into the house with a shrug, as though glad to be rid of them and their invitations. He did not tarry in the cleanly sunlit cabin, but hurried out to the rear garden, where an old man wearing an apron similar to his was busily tapping and chipping at a block of stone erected upon wooden supports.
"Why didn't you go with the others?" inquired the stone-cutter, looking up from his work. "You needn't have come back, because I have finished the urn for the terrace of the Villa d'Asolo, and it is too late in the afternoon to begin on the Monfumo altar ornaments. Besides, you have stood by your work pretty hard lately, and I think every boy needs a holiday once in a way."
"I don't want a holiday, grandfather."
"Bless us! What are you talking about? Who ever heard of a boy who didn't want a holiday every day in the week, if he could get it?"
"I'd like to be free from working on your things, of course, but I don't want to pole a raft. I'd rather carve my cherries, if you can do without me the rest of the afternoon."
"Ho, ho!" chuckled the old man fondly; "you're just like me, Tonin: work is play when it happens to be stone-work. Do your cherries, if you have the mind."
"Hurrah! I can finish them to-day, and I'll do a pear next, and—see, grandfather, by carnival-time I'll have plenty to sell," and throwing open the door of a small rude cupboard set in the branches of a stunted acacia, Tonin proudly displayed a collection of peaches, apples, and grapes which his skilful fingers had wrought out of fragments of stone left from old Pasino's cuttings. Next autumn, when all the villagers and country folk of the province would assemble at Asolo for their carnival and yearly frolic, Tonin would peddle his pretty fruit among the pleasure-seekers, confident of filling his purse-bag with coins in exchange for his wares. As he stood reviewing his handiwork, he smiled slyly at thought of the gifts he would buy for the two old people who adored him, and who had freely shared with him their roof and bread, from his earliest infancy.
The stone-cutter's earnings were necessarily small, and for two years Tonin had assisted him regularly at his work, cutting, carrying, measuring, and delivering day by day. He seconded Pasino's efforts so intelligently, and labored through the long hours with such manly patience, that the scanty comforts in the Alpine cabin visibly increased, and all the while the boy was learning the use of the cunning edged tools which his grandfather wielded so dexterously. The lad's name, as it appeared on the parish register, was Antonio, but to the guileless aged pair who cared for him he was simply and always Tonin.
Hoof-beats, accompanied by a shout from the roadway, caused the stone-cutter and the boy to hurry quickly to the hedgerow before the cabin.
A mounted horseman wearing the livery of the Duke d'Asolo called out, as with difficulty he brought his spirited steed to a standstill,—
"Pasino, you are wanted at the villa. Something in the picture gallery needs to be done, and you are the only one to do it. The duke gives a great banquet to-night, and the room must be in readiness. Vittori sent me, and bids you to hurry as fast as you can."
"I'll follow you at once. Come, Tonin, mayhap you can be of service at the villa also."
Off galloped the messenger, and down the road marched Pasino Canova, bearing his tool-box upon his shoulder, while his barefooted grandson, similarly equipped, trudged cheerily by his side.
The stone-cutter was frequently in demand at the Villa d'Asolo, for besides the craft of his trade, the old man understood something of the uses of plaster, stucco, and even marble. No other workman in this remote hill country was so skilled, and for many years he had received the friendly patronage of Giovanni Falier, Duke d'Asolo.
On the way, Pasino stopped for an instant before the entrance of a gentleman's country residence. "This'" said he, "is the home of Toretto, the great, great sculptor."
"Oh, grandfather, let's go in and look at his wonderful statues," begged Tonin. "Please, grandfather! Surely he wouldn't care, for I came once with Giuseppe Falier, and he allowed us to look at everything. Do, grandfather!"
"Not to-day," objected the old man, hastily resuming his onward way; "we have work to do, and have promised to hurry to the Villa d'Asolo as fast as we can."
Tonin slowly followed Pasino down the road, looking backward over his shoulder as long as the tall chimneys of Toretto's palace could be seen.
"Grandfather," said he thoughtfully, as a turning of the way shut the sculptor's house from sight, "I'd rather be able to make a statue as beautiful as the ones Toretto showed us that day than do anything else in the whole world."
"Ah, that you might!" burst out the old man emphatically; "but, Tonin, for such work the eyes, the fingers, the mind must be taught—taught, Tonin, and—well, you know the rest: poor folk like us mustn't be gloomy because we can't do fine works. Chances to learn such things cost so much that none but gentlemen with bulging purses can afford them."
"I'm not gloomy, grandfather! You can teach me all that you know, and when I am a man, I will take care of you and grandmother." Here the boy began to whistle gayly, seeking to banish the look of sadness that had rested for a moment on the old man's features.
Presently they reached the Villa d'Asolo, whose pillared gates were thrown open to them by retainers. Across the terraces they took their way, past arbors, gardens of blossoms, and plashing fountains, reaching at last a postern door of the many-storied castle.
In the passage they were confronted by Giuseppe Falier, the duke's youngest son, a handsome lad no older than Tonin. A serving-man attended him, carrying a glass aquarium that contained numerous brilliant goldfish. Boy and groom were preparing to depart through the door by which the Canovas had entered, but at sight of the new-comers Giuseppe halted.
"Hello, Tonin," he exclaimed; "come with me up to my cousin's house. This is David's birthday, and I forgot all about it until this minute. I didn't have any present to give him, so I decided I'd take the goldfish out of the conservatory. He likes such things. I don't, myself. Come on, and we'll have some fun. David has a new boat, and we'll make him take it out."
Giuseppe's invitation was so frankly cordial that Tonin would have joined him readily had he had no duties to perform. Giuseppe was a lad of jovial spirit who chose his friends wherever he found good comrades, quite regardless of rank and riches, and many were the half-days that he and Tonin had spent together, exploring the hills and valleys round about Asolo.
"I can't go to-day, Giuseppe," replied Tonin; "grandfather has something to do in the picture gallery before the banquet to-night, and he is likely to need me."
"My eye, but there will be a crowd of people here! One reason I'm going up to David's is because I'm not allowed to stay up for the fun. Good-by. I'll take you up to see the boat some day next week," and beckoning the servant to follow with the aquarium, the young patrician disappeared through the outer door, and the Canovas made their way up a stately marble stair, and through a winding corridor until they came to a long narrow apartment whose walls were hung with canvases.
Here they were greeted by Vittori, the stout and hoary seneschal of the palace. He wore his crimson robe of office, and a stupendous bunch of keys hung by a chain from his girdle, clanking as he walked.
He bustled up to the Canovas hurriedly, puffing and panting as from some undue exertion.
"Ha, Pasino, you are the very man I most need to see. Those four deep niches in the walls, two at either end of this gallery, are to be filled with the statues which Toretto has just finished. The beastly things were delivered yesterday, and Toretto himself promised to come to see that they were set up properly, but instead, a message was brought from him two hours ago saying that he had sprained his silly ankle and could not stir from the house. The duke will be furious if his marble doll-babies are not on view to-night, and as I wouldn't touch them myself for fear of harming them with my clumsy fingers, I called you for the business. There, in that further ante-room, you will find Toretto's beauties inside the packing cases, and you are to get them safely into these niches. My-o! My-o! What a load of care falls on a poor old man who is keeper of a palace where one hundred noble guests are expected for a feast! Nobody in all Venetia has more worries and responsibilities. You may have as many men as you want, Pasino, and if your eye spies out any need for decorations in this chamber, send for what you wish. My-o! My-o! The carriages are beginning to arrive, and I must make eleven more arrangements before the feast is ready. You have plenty of time, for this room is not to be used until the ladies come up at the end of the banquet, to drink their Persian coffee," and the seneschal departed, accompanied by the sounds of his labored breathing and jangling keys.
Pasino's task was a delicate one, and though Vittori sent four strong men to aid him, the evening was nearly spent by the time the glistening statues were released from their temporary prisons and lifted to their pedestals in the gallery niches.
While they worked, sounds of music and subdued laughter floated up to them, and fragrances and appetizing odors were continually wafted from the banquet-hall below.
Tonin worked with the others, and when the sculptured nymphs were brought to view, his delight knew no bounds. Taking up his position before the last erected one, he stood with folded arms, silently, wonderingly drinking in the beauties which Toretto's chisel had effected. He was wholly lost to time and place and was quite unaware that the servants had removed all traces of packing and litter, and that a bevy of maids were now seated in the gallery, weaving garlands at Pasino's order, for the festooning of the unfinished pedestals. He was so absorbed in the snowy goddess before him that he was deaf to everything until old Vittori's voice suddenly rent the gallery's stillness with something between a groan and a shriek.
"Where is the aquarium? Who's seen my gold-fish? Answer, somebody, or I'll throw you all out of the window! Oh, I shall be disgraced and discharged and maybe half killed! Where is it? Why don't you speak?"
The seneschal's appearance, as well as his words, indicated unusual excitement, for his scarlet robe was thrown open at the throat, his frosty locks were rumpled, his uplifted hands were shaking, and his lips were twitching uncannily.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" demanded a dozen voices, but Tonin darted across to the old man's side with the announcement—
"Giuseppe carried it away this afternoon as a present to his cousin David."
"My-o! My-o! I am lost, I am done, I am dead!" ejaculated the seneschal, wringing his hands.
"What's the trouble, Vittori?" asked Pasino, laying a quieting hand upon the shoulder of his agitated friend.
"It is this," returned the seneschal hoarsely; "the duke ordered me to send to the table a fresh ornamental centrepiece with each course, making every one handsomer than the one used before it. I did so, and all has now been served but the dessert, and that will be due in about fifteen minutes. For this fancy piece I have filled a great tray with Parma violets on snow, thousands of them—and in the midst of the flowers I planned to set the aquarium of goldfish for a bit of color and life. My-o! My-o! What shall I do?" and once again the seneschal fell to moaning.
"Build a column of fruit in the centre of the tray," suggested Pasino.
"Impossible! I used a pyramid of apricots and nectarines for the second course."
"Wouldn't a lighted candle or lamp do?" inquired Pasino, earnestly endeavoring to find relief for the seneschal.
"No! No!" wailed Vittori; "lighted things would melt the snow."
"To be sure," agreed Pasino sympathetically.
"I know something that might be pretty," ventured Tonin timidly.
"What is it?" Vittori demanded.
For answer the boy turned from the seneschal and his fellow-retainers, and whispered to Pasino apart. The old man's face brightened as he received the boy's confidence.
"I don't know," he commented; "but it ought to be good—yes, yes, it would be, it would indeed!"
"Then let him put it through," shouted the seneschal desperately. "I can't wait to hear what it is, for I'm late now. Do as he says, everybody, for I've got to trust my reputation to this stripling whether I like it or not. Saints help him, for if the work is a failure, woe to poor Vittori! Have your ornament ready in the lower rear passage, lad, when the tray goes through to the banquet-room. Everything else shall be taken in first, so that you may have as much time as possible."
Off went the harassed seneschal, and Tonin, beset with misgivings lest he had been both rash and bold in his offer of assistance, addressed the grooms with outward composure.
"Bring me a firkin of butter, a pail of the coldest spring water, and a big china platter."
His orders were swiftly obeyed, and all looked on with expectant interest while he directed a servant to dig from the cask as much butter as could be heaped on the platter. Next he rolled back his sleeves and plunged his hands into the water-pail, holding them there until they were sufficiently cooled for his purpose, then attacking the butter with his dripping fingers, he rolled and patted it into a goodly loaf, with motions so quick and decisive that the spectators fairly blinked. Seizing a small chisel and a pointed wooden blade from Pasino's tool-chest, Tonin began to convert the meaningless dairy lump into a form familiar to all beholders.
With the touch of his nimble instruments, attended by occasional taps and pressures from his lithe brown fingers, the loaf vanished, and in its place appeared a noble lion, quite as though Tonin's chisel had been a magic wand which had freed the king of the forest from a stifling and hideous disguise.
"In its place appeared a noble lion."
The tawny beast, with his bushy head, slender body, powerful limbs, and graceful tail, brought a torrent of babbling admiration from the on-lookers; but Tonin, heedless of their chatter, sought out his grandfather with questioning glance. He received a quiet nod from Pasino, and drying his hands on a corner of his hempen apron, he caught up the platter and carried it to the appointed place below stairs, followed by Pasino and a train of chuckling servants.
He had gauged the time exactly, for as he stepped into the low-ceiled passage, six flower-maidens, bearing the debatable centrepiece, entered from the opposite doorway. The seneschal joined them immediately, and without a word set Tonin's lion in the centre of the snowy field, enclosed on every side by drifts of Parma violets. Vittori then abruptly directed the maidens to enter the banquet-hall with their ornament.
That the seneschal was alarmed lest the duke would not be pleased with this hastily contrived decoration, Tonin read at a glance; and impulsively he threw himself before the carriers to stay their progress.
"Don't send it in if it isn't right, Master Vittori! Try something else, please!" he implored.
"Hist! Let them go, let them go! I have nothing else to send, so I must stand or fall by your butter-toy. Alas for me, and you, too, sirrah, if the duke be vexed!"
A strained silence fell upon the group in the rear passage as the flower-maidens crossed the main corridor and entered the banquet-hall. The grooms and maids exchanged significant nods and winks, old Vittori unconsciously pressed his keys tightly to his breast, Pasino withdrew into the shadow, and Tonin waited in acute suspense, wondering whether in his desire to relieve the seneschal's dilemma he had been guilty of a childish and ignorant blunder. As the seconds flew by, the boy's perplexity increased, and presently he was writhing with the fear that his offering would affront the duke, and perhaps even render him ridiculous before the lords and ladies who sat at the board.
Sounds of harps and violins greeted them from beyond the velvet-hung portal, but none in the rear passage regarded the melody.
Five minutes dragged by, and one of the flower-maidens stepped into the corridor. Each person in the rear passage started breathlessly forward to hear her message.
"His grace desires the seneschal to come to him."
"My-o! My-o!" groaned Vittori; "mercy knows what he'll do to me—and to you, too, Tonin Canova!"
Pausing just long enough to settle his scarlet robe and adjust his linen neckcloth, the seneschal concealed his distress as well as he could, and walked sedately into the banquet-hall.
Tonin locked his hands together in despair.
"What a dunce I was—I, Tonin Canova, who has never been off this mountain—to dare to set up my little work before grand persons like those! Oh, oh! and poor Vittori may be discharged on account of it!"
Suddenly the seneschal reappeared.
"Tonin, you are wanted at once! His grace has sent for you. Hurry! Go on!"
"Not in there!" gasped Tonin, retreating toward the stair door; "I should die of fright before those great folk."
"Hurry, hurry, you impudent monkey! Do you think you can keep the Duke d'Asolo waiting?"
To make an end of the argument, Vittori seized the boy by the arm, giving him a push that sent him into the banquet-room with a rush.
Tonin was half-blinded by the myriads of lights, and quite dazed by the grandeur of the spectacle. He dimly comprehended that the vast apartment was hung with vines and banked with flowers; that a table like a huge cross ran the entire length and nearly the breadth of the room; that the Duke d'Asolo sat at the upper end, and that hosts of ladies and gentlemen in gorgeous raiment turned about in their chairs and fixed their eyes upon the young visitor.
A scalding wave of shame rushed upward through Tonin's body, scorching his cheeks and dyeing his neck as he became conscious of his own workaday garb. He came to an abrupt stop, standing with downcast eyes before the Venetian company, a truly diverting figure with his loose blouse, rolled-up trousers and sleeves, bare arms, bare legs, and dripping apron.
"Come, my lad, and tell us something about yourself," said the duke in a tone surprisingly gentle for one who palpitated with wrath and vengeance.
Tonin made his way slowly up the room, pausing at the duke's elbow, and raising his eyes just far enough to get a glimpse of his yellow lion on the table, directly before Giovanni Falier.
"When did you do this?" inquired the master of the feast, indicating the ornament with his jewelled index finger.
"To-night," admitted Tonin feebly.
"Can you make other figures and objects?"
"Yes, signor."
"Where did you learn?"
"From grandfather, signor."
"I have been greatly surprised this evening, as also have been my guests, at sight of this—this decoration, and ahem—"
"Now it's coming," thought Tonin in a panic. "Perhaps he'll put me in a dungeon."
"I have sent it clear around the table so that every one might examine it closely, and we all agree about it. How should you like to make statues, lad,—nymphs, you know, and fairies—"
"And goddesses like that one upstairs?" cried Tonin, his face alight with this unexpected turn of the conversation.
"Yes."
"Oh, oh! I'd rather make a goddess like that than to be a king, or go to the carnival!"
A chorus of laughter greeted this outburst, and Tonin trembled with embarrassment and surprise.
"Then you shall," the duke declared with a smile like April sunshine. "You must have worked pretty hard, harder than most boys ever do, to be able to make this," pointing to the lion; "and if you are willing to keep on working, you may learn to do great things. You shall go to Toretto, the sculptor who did the four pieces upstairs, and he will teach you to make statues as good. Shall you like it, my boy?"
"Like it! Oh, signor, if I had a chance to learn anything so beautiful I'd work—I'd work—"
A vision of the glistening goddess and her wordless grace came before him, causing something to spring up in his throat that choked him. Twice he tried to finish his eager speech, but the words did not come. He gave a quick, eloquent gesture of entreaty, and down went his face into his hands before them all.
"A toast, a toast!" exclaimed the duke, springing to his feet with upraised glass. "We'll pledge in water, if you please, good people, for clear water and unspoiled childhood are the purest things of earth. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you our little friend, Tonin Canova. May he work faithfully with his teacher day by day, and when he comes to manhood, may he be good and great and happy! God bless him!"
Clink, clink, went the glasses.
Tonin raised his head, and as he turned to withdraw, he whispered to the duke with a beaming smile,—
"I don't know any nice words to say, but maybe you'll tell all the people for me how a boy feels when he's too happy to laugh and too happy to cry."
Up the Alpine road to the village of mud-walled cabins rode a man one day in autumn. His air was that of an experienced traveller, his dress rich but modest, his horse a spirited charger.
At the entrance to the village, a turn in the road brought him face to face with a man in peasant attire who was walking in the opposite direction. The rider bent curiously, and gazed down at the passer-by with keenest interest; then bringing his horse sharply to a standstill, he cried,—
"Pablo! Don't you remember me?"
The man by the way halted in surprise. For a moment he regarded the stranger blankly, then some memory out of his boyhood seemed to awaken, for suddenly he seized the horse's bridle with both hands, and shouted,—
"Tonin Canova! By all the fates and furies, you are the last man in the world I expected to see to-day!"
"I knew you by your quick and springy step. I suppose you are still the leader of the town, Pablo, the foremost citizen of Passagno."
A flush of pride crept into the peasant's cheek, but he merely waved his hand toward the extensive vineyard lying further down the slope.
"That is mine. That's all."
"And enough, too, old friend. Your purse must be ready to overflow, after a harvest from that fine vineyard."
The peasant blushed again and nodded. Then half timidly he addressed the other,—
"I'm glad to see you again, signor—"
The rider lifted his hand in rebuke.
"Not signor to me, Pablo! I am still your friend, and not in any wise changed from the lad who played with you in this very roadway."
"But you have grown powerful and wealthy!"
"Ye-es, but gold coins can never make me anything else than I was before."
"But we have heard that the city of Venice gave you a pension for your whole life, because you had made such wonderful statues."
"Yes, Venice has been good to me."
"And that all the great people of Rome are friends with you."
"True, but—"
"That the Pope has written your name in the golden book of the capital."
"So he did; still—"
"That Napoleon of France invited you to his court, and that the German Emperor has even made you a knight."
"Hark to me, Pablo!" and this time the rider's voice was commanding. "These things are indeed true, for people everywhere have shown me the rarest kindness; but while the palace doors of all Europe are open to me if I care to enter, and ladies and gentlemen of every nation pour their compliments and gold upon me, my heart has turned back to my native village and the dear simple friends of my childhood. I have left the great world for a time, and have come back to see the old faces; and Pablo, on that slope, near the little cottage,"—here his voice broke, as he pointed to the last of the mud-walled cabins,—"I have planned to build a church as beautiful as the Parthenon at Athens. If my good old neighbors cannot travel far enough to see the temples of the world, they shall have one near at hand, which will show them that Canova has not forgotten them."
True to his word, the sculptor lingered in Passagno until there had risen on the mountain side a classic, snowy edifice which was the wonder and pride of all the villagers. When the builders had finished and had gone their way, the man who had designed it all put on his apron, took up his chisel, and completed for the altar ornaments that he had begun twenty years before, when he had lived in the cabin just over the way.
How the people rejoiced in their pillared house of worship, and how grateful they were to the giver of so splendid a gift. Warmly they bade him farewell when his task was at length completed, and he was obliged to go in order to execute the greater works that awaited him.
At last, in the city of Rome, when the sculptor's hair whitened, his step faltered, and his heart grew strangely still, the friends about him, a brilliant company, carried him tenderly up the Alpine road, and laid him to rest beneath the altar of his own carving.
When the service was ended, the lords and ladies, the princes and cardinals, the poets and teachers who had paid him their devotion to the last, wound their way slowly down to the turbulent world; and Tonin Canova slept on the mountain side, in the heart of his Alpine village.
FRÉDÉRIC OF WARSAW [CHOPIN[4]]
It was the evening study hour at Nicholas Chopin's boarding-school. Twenty-five lads belonging to the oldest families of Warsaw were assembled in the schoolroom, preparing lessons for the following day.
The place was large, well lighted, and comfortably warmed; good pictures hung on the walls, and racks of books filled every available nook. At the upper end of the room, near the master's desk, stood an open piano; and at the lower, a table bearing plates, cups, and wholesome refreshments which would be distributed among the boys when study-hour was over. Throughout the room great cheerfulness and comfort reigned, and the apple-cheeked boys at the desks showed that they were generously cared for under this kindly roof. They were mostly little fellows, ranging in age from eight to twelve years, and a merrier company one would journey far to find.
When Nicholas Chopin sat behind the desk, this hour was always a quiet one; for while he was indulgent with the boys out of school, furthering their enjoyment with all his heart, he was also a strict and thorough teacher, who would tolerate no disturbance from the pupils during lesson-time.
But to-night the master was absent, and the new assistant, a mild-eyed, pale young man, sat in Nicholas Chopin's chair and sought to keep the boys at their tasks. He had been among them but two or three days, and at the very beginning the pupils had decided that this was his first attempt at teaching. His soft voice and worried look filled the boys with glee; and half their playtime was spent in making plans to mock and deride him. Until now, however, they had failed to carry out their mischievous schemes, for Nicholas Chopin had compelled them to treat the new assistant with respectful obedience. But to-night the master had gone from home, leaving his assistant in full charge of the school, and the boys threw all rules to the winds for the sole purpose of vexing the new teacher.
Instead of the usual stillness maintained at this hour, the room was a-buzz with whispers. The boys noisily shuffled their feet, rattled their papers, and tossed their books about on their desks. The teacher rapped sharply with his ruler again and again, but these warnings were greeted with impudent chuckles and laughter.
At one of the side desks sat Frédéric Chopin, the master's son, toiling at a much blotted copy-book. He was heartily liked by every boy in the house, and for some reason, whenever he spoke in his quiet way, the others obeyed his wishes without a syllable of complaint. John Skotricki, who had the strongest arms and legs at school, was the ringleader on the playground; but Frédéric was chief councillor and fun-maker at all other times and places. Although the master's son, he enjoyed no special favor or liberty, but was held to the same line of duty prescribed for the other students. In the classroom he was not noticeably clever, for he was very bad at numbers, and it is doubtful if he could have found his own country on the great globe in the corner; but there was one thing that Frédéric Chopin could do better than any other boy in the school, better than any other boy in Warsaw, better, probably, than any other boy in all the country of Poland: he could play magnificently on the piano. So remarkably he played that everybody wondered, and strangers often came to the house for a glimpse of the young musician.
A year before, when he was nine, he had played at a great charity concert given in the city hall, and after the performance the people had surged by the stage to shake his hand and praise him; and in the excitement and pleasure of it all, he might have become very vain of his powers and success, but he remembered just in time that while he could play brilliantly on the piano, he could not jump as far by ten inches as John Skotricki, and that he did not know as much about grammar as the youngest pupil at school.
One boy who had attended the concert, and who loved music passionately, was the young Prince Radziwill. He decided that evening that he would like to know the boy pianist, and soon it was no uncommon thing for the prince's carriage to roll up to the Chopin school. Frédéric went often with the young nobleman to drive, sometimes even accompanying him home to the palace; but of these things he never spoke to the boys at school, and not one of them was jealous because Frédéric had become the prince's friend.
He practised diligently for many hours every day in his own room; but he never mentioned the subject of music to the other lads, and when in their company he was as happy-go-lucky as any schoolboy in Warsaw.
To-night, however, when he saw the new teacher's face flush with displeasure in the noisy schoolroom, he felt a bit sorry, for he knew that the young man would prove to be a good-natured companion if he were not enraged at the outset.
Frédéric glanced uneasily about him from time to time as the confusion increased, realizing that even the most patient of teachers would not long endure such rebellion. He, as much as any one, enjoyed the antics that kept the whole school tittering, and was strongly tempted to join in the mutiny; but he had promised his father to stand by the new assistant this evening, and he felt honor-bound to do it.
The crisis came when John Skotricki leaped from his seat and ran down the room in pursuit of a boy who had given him a cuff on the ear in passing. The teacher sprang up with an angry light in his eye, and flourished the ruler threateningly. Frédéric exchanged glances with the assistant, and threw down his pen with the announcement,—
"Boys, if you'll all be quiet in your seats, I'll tell you a story."
The others, supposing that Frédéric was on their side, and that this was a part of the joke, folded their arms; and instantly the room grew so still that one could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall beyond.
Frédéric turned out all the lights, for "a story always sounds better in the dark," he explained. Then seating himself at the piano, he began to speak, playing all the while music that helped to tell his story.
Every student rested his arms on his desk, and bent attentively to listen.
"Once upon a time there stood a great house on the bank of a lonely river." (Here came a lightly running passage on the piano, like the rippling of water.) "A band of robbers riding through the country paused in the glade at nightfall. Seeing the old mansion by the river side, they decided to force an entrance at midnight and carry away the gold and jewels that were probably secreted there.
"They laid their plans carefully" (sounds of many gruff, deep-toned voices, one at a time, then all together in a rumbling chorus), "and at the solemn hour they had chosen" (twelve clanging tones), "they tied their horses farther up the dell, and marched, two by two, toward the house by the swirling river. Noiselessly they approached and surrounded the many-pinnacled dwelling, each robber choosing a window through which he would make his entrance. At the signal of the leader" (a high faint trill), "each man climbed to his window ledge, sawed straight through the iron bars that protected it" (a steady rasping sound as of edged tools), "and ripped out the glass with the point of his dagger" (tinklings as of shattered crystal).
"Now for the treasures! Each man had one foot inside the house, and one hand on the inner sill, when, all at once, lights flared up in every room" (a reckless sweep of notes), "dogs barked fiercely, shouts were heard from the upper corridors, pistol-shots burst on the stillness of the night, and the robbers leaped from their perches, rolling over and over in the mud below" (loud discordant notes, and the bang, bang of the pistols mingled with the furious growling and yelping of dogs).
"Gaining their feet in a twinkling, the robbers fled as swiftly as though wearing wings on their boots; and reaching the horses in breathless fright, they swung themselves into their saddles and galloped madly away. Hour after hour they rode" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat of the hoof-beats), "through valley and village and glen. On, on they spurred" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat), "until they came to a deep, dense forest. Into its shadows they plunged, knowing that here they would be safe at last from the dogs and the men who lived in the house by the rolling river.
"They pulled up their horses and listened" (silence), "and listened" (silence), "but heard no pursuing feet. So, dismounting, they turned their horses loose to nibble at will, and jaded by hours of reckless riding, the robbers threw themselves upon the green turf to rest. The scents of the flowers were sweet, the grass was deep and soft, the leaves overhead rustled, rustled, rustled, and ere long, in the cool of the summer's dawn, the weary robbers—fell—asleep."
So quietly had Frédéric spoken, so softly had he played as he described the woodland sounds, that, gently touching the final chord, he discovered, by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, that twenty-four boys, like the tired robbers, were fast asleep.
"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep."
Stealing from the room on tiptoe, he summoned his sisters and the servants to bring in lights; then stepping to the piano, he struck one crashing chord.
As though a bomb had exploded among them, the boys started from their slumbers, rubbing their eyes and staring stupidly at one another.
At that moment the clock chimed the hour of dismissal, and Nicholas Chopin entered the room; whereupon the pupils bounded from their seats with shouts of laughter over the musical spell that Frédéric had cast upon them.
When the cups and plates went round, the new teacher drew the master into the hall and told him how cleverly Frédéric had helped him to maintain order; but in the schoolroom the lads were waving their sandwiches and napkins, and cheering the master's son as a jolly comrade and a true-blue mate.
>The city of Warsaw adored its composer, Frédéric Chopin. The residents detected hidden meanings in his playing of the piano which they believed would sometime be accepted beyond the realm of Poland.
He was young, handsome, and gay, and his companionship was sought on every side. Had not his breast been stirred by an impulse stronger than the mere desire for popularity, Frédéric Chopin would have developed into nothing more than an elegant young musician, the acknowledged favorite of his fellow-townsmen. But he was not content to end his career so tamely. He must see the world. He must conquer the public beyond his native land. He must play, he must compose, he must work and study to greater ends.
Accordingly, one day in November, at the age of twenty-one, he set out for Vienna. When he found himself actually leaving kindred and home behind, a flood of sadness swept over him.
"I shall never return," he groaned; "my eyes will never look upon Warsaw again!"
His friends responded lightly to these fears, and with their words of cheer he soon recovered his usual bright spirit.
He was escorted as far as the first day's travel would carry him by a score of affectionate friends; and at the end of a banquet given in his honor, he was touched to the heart by one of their number presenting to him a silver goblet filled with Polish earth, with entreaties that he would meet the world as a man, and keep his country in constant remembrance.
In Vienna he attracted much attention by his playing, and at the end of a year he was accounted one of the leading musical spirits of the city.
He had decided to pay a brief visit to his home and friends, when on his way he was horrified to learn that his beloved Poland had been seized by the Russians, that his country was in the hands of the enemy, and that Warsaw was converted into a camp of foreign soldiers. He dared not advance farther, as all absent Poles had been warned by the new Government to keep away from Poland, on pain of death.
Frédéric was nearly crushed by these unlooked-for tidings, and, only waiting to learn that his parents were safe and well, he set his face toward Paris. Here he decided to make his home, as had so many others of his exiled countrymen. Success in this city meant success in the world, and for this Frédéric Chopin labored through the following years.
His playing was so rare, so peculiarly delicate, that no one in Paris could approach him in his chosen style. One critic called him "the piano god," another, "Velvet Fingers"; and when his compositions were printed, and the people could play them for themselves, they were nigh transported by his genius.
London vainly besought him to take up his residence there, but he steadily refused, remaining for the rest of his days in Paris, the pride of the Parisians and the idol of the many Poles who, like himself, were exiled from their native land.
When the end came, and the "velvet fingers" were stilled at last, he was buried from the Church of the Madeleine. Crowds of distinguished persons and homeless Poles attended the sacred service, and the procession was numbered by hundreds, that, to the strains of his own "Funeral March," followed Frédéric Chopin to the tomb.
Finally, when his body was lovingly laid in the place prepared for it, one of his countrymen brought forth the silver goblet which for nineteen years the composer had fondly cherished, and, as the sweetest benediction he could offer, reverently took a handful of Polish earth and sprinkled it upon the body of Frédéric of Warsaw.