CHAPTER XX.
So, while Mr. Whacker is explaining matters to the Don, I shall make things clear to the reader.
My grandfather, when a young man, spent several years in Europe. He was an enthusiast in every fibre, and one of his enthusiasms was music. Very naturally, therefore, he took lessons while abroad,—lessons on the violin, the piano being held, in Virginia, an instrument fit only for women and foreigners. But, undertaking the violin for the first time when he was a grown man, he never acquired, ardently as he practised, anything like a mastery over that difficult instrument. At any rate, returning to Virginia and finding himself no longer in an artist-atmosphere, his ardor gradually cooled, so that until about ten or twelve years before the period of my story, all I can remember of my grandfather’s musical performances is his occasional fiddling for me and such of my young school-mates as chanced to visit me. During the Christmas holidays, especially, when Elmington was always crowded with young people, it was an understood thing that Uncle Tom, as most of his neighbors’ children delighted to call him, was to be asked to play. Christmas Eve, notably, was no more Christmas Eve, at Elmington, without certain jigs and reels executed by “Uncle Tom,” than without two enormous bowls—one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy—concocted by him with his own hands. The thing had grown into an institution, more and more fixed as the years went by. On such occasions, immediately after the old gentleman had taken his second glass of eggnog,—not before,—it was in order to call for his annual exhibition of virtuosity; whereupon Charley—no one else could be trusted to bear the precious burden—was despatched to my grandfather’s chamber, where, upon a special shelf in a closet, lay, from Christmas to Christmas, a certain old violin, which rarely saw the light at any other time.
But, about a dozen years before the events I am now describing, there came a German musician—Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel chanced to be his name—and established himself at Leicester Court-House as a piano teacher,—or, rather, he gave lessons on any and all instruments, as will be the case in the country.
Herr Waldteufel was an excellent pianist, and, in fact, a thorough musician. Strangers from the cities, when they heard him play at Elmington, were always surprised to find so brilliant a performer in the country, and used to wonder why he should thus hide his light under a bushel. But the truth is, a man generally finds his place in the world, and Herr Waldteufel was no exception. In the frequent hinges of his elbow was to be found the explanation of his losing his patronage, in city after city; so that it was natural enough that he found himself, at last, giving lessons in a village, and in the houses of the neighboring gentry, upon piano, fiddle, flute, guitar, and, shades of Sebastian Bach! must I even add—the banjo?
And, notwithstanding his weakness, the honest Herr was an excellent teacher. True, he did occasionally fail to put in an appearance for a lesson, when no excuse was to be found in the weather; but his patrons learned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiable and obliging, he was a general favorite, and welcome everywhere.
Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintance of the Herr and to invite him to Elmington; at first under the pretext of having him tune his piano. The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked to play; and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr. Whacker soon found themselves trying over a slow movement, here and there, out of a musty and dusty old edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they made was, I dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had not played anything of that kind for years; but it would have been hard to say which of the two was most delighted,—the German, at finding so enthusiastic a lover of his art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather, at the prospect of being able to renew his acquaintance with his idolized Mozart, whom he always persisted in placing at the head of all composers. The Elmington dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’s estimate of the treasure he had found; and (Mr. Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving him that night) they separated at the head of the stairs, at one o’clock in the morning, after a regular musical orgie, vowing that they had not seen the last of it. Nor had they; for before Herr Waldteufel had set out, in the morning, for a round of lessons in the neighborhood, he had promised to return, the following Friday, to dinner. And so, from that day forth, he was sure to drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and regularly, after dinner, he and my grandfather would fall to and play and play until they were exhausted. Next day the Herr would sally forth, and, after giving his lessons, return in time for dinner; after which they would have another time together.
Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; but my grandfather would never play on that day. I suppose it would be hardly possible for a man who has spent several years on the Continent to see anything “sinful” in music on Sunday; but neither is it possible for any man, even though he be a philosopher, altogether to evade the pressure of surrounding convictions. Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—of our Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defy all rivalry. Virginia is not only one of the Middle States, she is the middle State of the Union in many other respects, but especially in her theological attitude. While, to the north and east of her, religious systems that have weathered the storms of centuries are rocking to their foundations, nay, tumbling before our very eyes, undermined by the incessant rush of opinions ever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while, to the southward and westward, we see the instability and recklessness inseparable from younger communities, the Old Dominion stands immovable as a rock; believing what she has always believed, and seriously minded so to believe to the end of time,—astronomy, geology, and biology to the contrary notwithstanding. Now, of all the religious convictions of your true Virginian this is the most deeply rooted,—the most universally accepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath, not the Sabbath for man. Again: according to our biblical exegesis the word Sabbath does not really mean Sabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the week, that is, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first is the opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency of the reasoning,—so is work the contrary of play. Hence it is clear to us (however others may laugh) that the commandment forbidding all manner of work on the last day of the week was really meant to inhibit all manner of play on the first; Q. E. D.
I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, after returning from church, the Herr opened the piano, “just to try over” the hymns we had heard, my grandfather made no objection; and then, when his fingers somehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentleman either believed or affected to believe that it was a Teutonic form of religious music, and called for more. And so, things going from bad to worse, it came about that in the end we had hours of piano music every Sunday, to the great scandal of some of our neighbors, who did not fail to hint that the Herr was an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.
But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the line at the fiddle; making a distinction perfectly intelligible to all true Virginians,—though his course in this matter ever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and effete European brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.
For many months—for two or three years, in fact—after this arrangement was set on foot, my grandfather was at fever heat with his music. To the amazement, not to add amusement of his neighbors and friends, he fell to practising with all the ardor of a girl in her graduating year; nor was he content to stop there. He set every one else, over whom he had any influence, to scraping catgut. His favorite text during this period, and one upon which he preached with much vigor and eloquence, was the insipidity of American life,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.
“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whist is adapted to those among us of middle age, or the old; but whist is, at the best, unsocial. Dancing gives happiness to the young only. Hunting affords amusement during one season and to one sex only. You cannot read forever; so that the greater part of our leisure-time we spend in gaping or gabbling,—boring or being bored. How different it would be if all our young people would take the trouble to make musicians of themselves! one taking one instrument, another another. Why, look at our neighbor up the river, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for, invariably, when he got to this particular neighbor, the bright vision of a possible domestic orchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to rob him of the power of utterance, and he would pace up and down his library with an expression of enthusiastic disgust on his heated features.
Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views in this regard was his grandson, the teller of this tale; and I believe it was really one of the most serious of the minor troubles of his life that he could never make a musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave me up as a hopeless case. But with Charley his reward was greater. Charley had readily consented to take lessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well before he entered the University, as during his vacations; and when, after he left college, he came to live with us, he was not likely to give up his music, as the reader can very well understand. During the week he and his friend used to play duos together, and they made very pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdays they would perform transcriptions (at making which the Herr was really clever) for two violins and piano.
Things went on in this way for a year or two; until, in fact, the summer of 1855. It was during the summer of that year, it will be remembered, that Norfolk was so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and my grandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs, had remained at Elmington, and opened his doors to his friends and other refugees from the stricken city. Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the epidemic declared itself, a young French or—to speak more accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped down into Norfolk, from somewhere, in search of a living; who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak of the fever, had fled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to find his way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in falling in with Herr Waldteufel; and he, exulting in the treasure he had found, brought him to Elmington on the first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.
“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered the Herr, at the first opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vas so full as a teek von peoples, but he can shleep mit me. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring dis Frenchman, oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He would insist upon calling Mr. Whacker Baron.)
“I suppose he is a refugee, and you knew—”
“A refuchee! ja wohl! Ach! but mein Gott, Barrone,” exclaimed he, clasping his hands, “vat for a feedler ist dot mon!”
“You don’t tell me so!”
“Donnerwetter!” rejoined the Herr, rolling up his eyes, “you joost hear him one time, dot’s all!”
From that day in August until the following Christmas M. Villemain was a member of our household; and even then he took his departure much against my grandfather’s will. His coming among us enabled Mr. Whacker to do what he had scarcely dreamed of before,—to establish, namely, a string quartet.
I shall never forget the first meeting of the club. Waldteufel, who was already a tolerable violinist, had readily agreed to take the violoncello part, and Charley, though with many misgivings, had consented to tackle the viola; and the Herr was despatched to Baltimore to purchase these two instruments. Upon their arrival, it was agreed that the novices should have two weeks’ practice before any attempt at concerted music should be made, Waldteufel taking his ’cello to his rooms at the Court-House, while Charley was to attack the viola under the direction of M. Villemain; but Mr. Whacker grew so impatient for a trial of their mettle that, on Friday morning of the first week, he sent a buggy for the Herr, requesting him to bring his instrument with him; and, accordingly, just before dinner, up drove the bass, his big fiddle occupying the lion’s share of the vehicle. Dinner over, my grandfather could allow but one pipe before the attack began. The centre-table in the parlor was soon cleared of books; the stands were placed upon it; the performers took their seats; the parts were distributed, “A” sounded, the instruments put in tune. The composition they had selected was that quartet of Haydn (in C major) known as the Kaiser Quartet, in the slow movement of which is found the famous Austrian Hymn.
“We are all then ready?” asked M. Villemain (in French), placing his violin under his chin. “Ah!” added he, in that short sharp tone so peculiarly French, and the bows descended upon the strings.
It was worth while to watch the bearing and countenances of the four players.
The Frenchman, entirely master of his instrument and his part,—glancing only now and then at his music,—ejaculating words of caution or encouragement; Waldteufel, taking in the meaning of the printed signs without an effort, but doubtful as to his fingering,—correcting his intonation with a rapid slide of his hand and an apologetic smile and nod to his brother artist; Charley, serene and imperturbable, but putting forth all that was in him; while my grandfather, conscious that the second violin was most likely to prove the block of stumbling, and anxious not to be utterly outdone by the “boys,”—his eyes riveted upon the page before him, his face overspread with a certain stage-fright pallor,—played as though the fate of kingdoms hung upon his bow. At last, not without a half-dozen break-downs, they approached the end of the first movement; and when, with a sharp twang, they struck, all together, the last note, my grandfather’s exultation knew no bounds.
“By Jove,” cried he, slapping his thigh,—“by Jove, we can do it!” And congratulations were general.
But the culmination of the enthusiasm occurred during the performance of the slow movement. Here the air, a gem of imperishable beauty, passes from one instrument to another. When the theme falls to the second violin, the violino primo accompanies, the viola and ’cello being silent, if I remember aright. Here was Mr. Whacker’s opportunity. The movement is without technical difficulties, but the mere idea that he had a solo to perform made the old gentleman as nervous as a graduating Miss. He lightly touched his strings to be quite sure they were in tune—gave a turn to a peg—wiped his spectacles—blew his nose—lifted the violin to his left ear, softly plucking D and G as though still in doubt—smoothed down the page—tightened his bow—and, with a bow to M. Villemain, began.
He had scarcely played a half-dozen notes when the Herr cried out, “Goot for de Barrone!”
“Bravo, Secondo!” echoed the Primo from the midst of his rapid semiquavers.
Deeply gratified and encouraged, the old man gave an unconscious but perceptible toss of the head; and his snowy locks trembled upon his temples. Charley lifted his eyes from the floor with a sigh of relief. His anxiety lest his old friend should break down had been touching to see,—the more so as he had tried so hard to conceal it.
The performer reached the appoggiatura about the middle of the air, and turned it not without grace. It was nothing to do,—absolutely nothing,—but the two artists were bent on giving applause without stint.
“Parbleu! Tourné à merveille!” cried the First Violin, in his native language.
“Py Tam!” shouted the Bass, in an unknown tongue.
“Je crois bien!” rejoined the Belgian, as though he understood him.
One of the Herr’s foibles was his fondness for making what it was his happiness to consider puns in the English language. “De Barrone served us a good turn dere!” he whispered to his unoccupied comrade.
The Viola smiled without taking his eyes off the Second Fiddle.
“You take?” inquired the Violoncello, stimulating his neighbor’s sense of humor by a gentle punch in the ribs with his bow.
“Very good, very good!” answered Charley; and my grandfather, taking the compliment to himself, rather laid himself out on a crescendo and forte that he encountered just then.
Mr. Whacker had practised his part over, hundreds of times, during the week preceding its execution by him on this occasion, and he really played it very creditably. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that, at its end, he should have been greeted with a small tempest of clappings and bravos and goots; and it remained his conviction ever after, that of all the quartets of Haydn, the Kaiser most nearly approaches the unapproachable perfection of Mozart.
He looked at the matter from the Second Violin point of view. Who shall cast the first stone?