CHAPTER XXIX.
“Git out o’ de way, you niggers! Aint y’ all got no manners? Git out o’ Marse Billy way! I declar’ fo’ Gaud niggers ain’t got no manners dese days. Tain’t like it used to be. Y’ all gittin’ wuss and wuss.”
So saying, Aunt Polly made an unceremonious opening among the eager heads of the youngsters that were thrust into the door-way; and Billy pressed laughing through the throng, nodding here and there as he passed. His arrival was hailed with beaming smiles by the ladies, and an almost uproarious welcome by the gentlemen. The Don had already opened his heart to him before he had gotten within introducing distance, charmed by his frank and manly bearing, his hearty manner with the gentlemen, his gentle deference to each lady in turn. So Billy’s sunny face, his cordial rushing hither and thither to greet his friends, his cheery laugh as he exchanged a bright word here and there,—a laugh that revealed a set of powerful and large, though well-shaped teeth,—all this had lighted up the thoughtful face of the Don with a sympathetic glow,—a glow that vanished when, on their being introduced, Billy’s fist closed upon his hand.
Mr. Billy was always a great favorite with me. Indeed, I like to think of him as a kind of ideal young Virginian of those days,—so true, and frank, and cordial, and unpretending. But there is one thing—I have mentioned it above—that, as a historian, I am bound to confess: Billy was addicted to playing on the fiddle.
“So, young ladies,” said my grandfather (for whose annual tunes no one, somehow, had thought of calling), “you will have a fiddle to dance by, after all.” A remark that elicited a joyous clapping of hands; and there was a general stir for partners.
“Dares any man to speak to me of fiddling,” said Billy, “before I have punished a few dozen of these bivalves?”
“That’s right, Billy! Dick, some oysters for Mr. Jones! They were never better than this season!”
Billy passed into the next room, where Dick and his spouse began to serve him with hospitable zeal.
“How was she, Marse Billy?”
Billy had just disposed of a monster that Dick had opened for him, and was looking thoughtful.
“Uncle Dick, it almost makes me cry to think how much better that oyster was than any we can get at the University; indeed it does.”
Dick chuckled with delight. “I believe you, Marse Billy; dey tells me dere ain’t no better oysters in all Fidginny dan de Leicester oyster.”
Four or five students, who, like Billy, had run down home for the holidays, had collected round the doorway leading into the library, and with them several girls who were listening in a half-suppressed titter to Billy’s solemn waggery. Lifting a huge “bivalve” on the prongs of his fork, he contemplatively surveyed it.
“You are right, Uncle Dick; Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these!”
“Jess so! What I tell you, Polly?” said Dick, straightening himself and holding an unopened oyster in one hand and his knife in the other. “Didn’t I say the Nuniversity was de most high-larnt school in de Nunited States?”
Polly, being Mrs. Dick, had too great an admiration for that worthy’s wisdom to do anything but simper assent.
“Jess so,”—and he held his eye upon her till he felt sure that she had abandoned all thought of protesting against his dictum,—“eben so. You right, Marse Billy; Solomon nor no other man never raised ’em like one o’ dese. Ain’t you takin’ nothin’ to-night, Marse William? Dey tells me toddy help a oyster powerful.”
“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Billy, with admiring surprise, “how do you manage always to know exactly what a fellow wants?”
“Marse William,”—and Dick drew himself up to his full height,—“I ain’t been ’sociatin’ wid de quality all dese years for nothin’.”
The dancing being over at a reasonable hour,—Billy and the Herr furnishing the music,—the ladies retired to their rooms in the “Great-House,” leaving the gentlemen to their toddy and cigars; and a jovial crew they became. Billy and the Herr bore a large part in the entertainment of the company,—the former executing reel and jig and jig and reel in dashing style,—the latter improvising accompaniments,—his head thrown back, a cigar-stump between his teeth, and contemplating, through his moist spectacles, with a serene Teutonic merriment, the capers of the revellers, one or another of whom could not, from time to time, resist the fascination of the rhythm, but would spring to his feet and execute something in the nature of a Highland fling or a double-shuffle, to the great delight of the others, and of none more than my glorious old grandfather. It is needless to remark that at each one of these Terpsichorean exhibitions there was a suppressed roar of chuckles to be heard issuing from the sable throng that crowded the door-ways, and that there might have been seen as many rows of ivories as there were heads massed together there.
“It is refreshing, Mr. Whacker,” observed the Don, whose reserve was unmistakably thawing under the apple-toddy, “to see a man of your age sympathizing so heartily with us youngsters in our enjoyments.”
“Yes,” remarked the old gentleman, lolling comfortably back in his chair; “but I am not so sure that I have left all the fun to the youngsters;” and he nodded towards his empty glass; “but I believe I enjoy the capers of the boys more than the toddy.”
“Go it, Billy!” cried a student, as that artist dashed into a jig with a zeal heightened by the enthusiasm of the now slightly boozy Herr.
“Bravo!” cried Mr. Whacker; “you will have to look to your laurels, Charley.”
“Oh, I resign!” said Charley, examining the rag on his finger.
“By the way, Charley, you have not yet shown Mr. Smith the old Guarnerius. Do you take any interest in such things?”
“I have a great curiosity to see it.”
“I am afraid it will not show off to advantage. I have forgotten to have it mounted with strings this Christmas. Do you know that a violin gets hoarse, as it were, from lying idle?”
“I have heard something of the kind.”
“I should have had it strung several days ago.”
“I put strings on it day before yesterday,” said Charley.
“Indeed!” said my grandfather; “but you were always thoughtful. Let us have it, Charley.”
Charley’s return with the violin made a stir among the company. Billy stopped his fiddling and came up, followed by all present, to see opened the case that contained the wonderful instrument, which was a sort of lion among the fiddlers of the county. My grandfather unlocked the case with a certain nervous eagerness, raised the lid almost reverently, and removing the padded silken covering which protected it, “Now just look at that,” said the old gentleman, his eye kindling.
I have often seen ladies take their female friends to the side of a cradle, and softly turning down the coverlet, look up, as much as to say, “Did you ever see anything half so beautiful?” And I must do the female friends the justice to add that they always signified that they never had; and I have often seen the subject of such unstinted praise, when brought before males, pronounced a pretty enough baby, but a baby seemingly in no wise different from all the babies that are, have been, or shall be; and on such occasions I can recall, methinks, some maiden aunt, for example, who has ended by getting worried at the persistent inability of some obstinate young fellow to see certain points of superiority about mouth, eyes, or nose, which to her were very clear. And so it was on this occasion, as on many previous ones, with my grandfather. He was always amazed, when he showed his violin, at the polite coldness of the praise that it received.
“Look at those f-holes,” said he, taking the violin out of its case; “look at those clean-cut corners!” And everybody craned his neck and tried to see the clean-cut corners. “What a contour!” exclaimed the enthusiastic old gentleman, holding the instrument off at arm’s length and gazing rapturously upon it. There was a murmur of adhesion, as the French say.
“Splendid!” ejaculated Billy, feeling that something was due from him as the fiddler of the evening; thereby drawing the gleaming eyes of Mr. Whacker full upon him. “Splendid!” repeated he, in a somewhat lower tone, and looking steadfastly at the violin; for he could not look the old gentleman in the face,—knowing—the honest scamp—that he was a fraud, and saw nothing wonderful in the instrument.
“Why, hand me that old gourd you have been playing on,” said Mr. Whacker; and he snatched the fiddle from Billy’s hand. “Look at those two scrolls, for example,” said the old gentleman, bumping them together within three inches of Billy’s nose.
Billy took the two necks in his hands, screwed up his face, and tried his best to look knowing; but his broad, genial countenance could not bear the tension long; and a sudden flash of humor from his kindly eyes set the company in a roar, in which my grandfather could not help joining.
“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I ought not to expect you to be a connoisseur in violins. Would you like to examine it?” said Mr. Whacker, thinking he detected a look of interest on the part of the Don,—and he handed him the instrument.
The Unknown took it in an awkward and confused sort of way. My grandfather looked chopfallen. “I thought that possibly you might have seen Cremonas in Europe,” observed the old man timidly.
The Don bowed,—whether in assent or dissent was not clear; nor was it any clearer, as he gently rocked it to and fro, examining the f-holes and other points of what is known as the belly of the instrument, whether he was moved by curiosity or by courtesy. A motion of his wrist brought the back of the instrument in view. “By Jove!” vehemently exclaimed the stranger, as a flood of golden light flashed into his eyes from the unapproachable varnish; but he colored and looked confused when he saw that his warmth had drawn the eyes of all upon himself. Even Charley ceased examining the bandage on his finger and quietly scrutinized the Don out of the corners of his eyes.
But you should have seen your ancestor and mine, my dear boy. He rose from his seat without saying a single word. There was an expression of defiance in his fine brown eyes, not unmingled with solemnity. He held out his upturned hands as though he were going to begin a speech, I was going to say,—but it was not that. His look and attitude were those of an advocate who has just brought a poser to bear on opposing counsel. And such my grandfather felt was his case. “For years,” his looks seemed to say, “I have been chaffed about my Guarnerius by you bumpkins, and now here comes a man who puts you all down by one word.” He looked from face to face to see if any of the company had anything to say to the contrary. At last his eve met Billy’s. That young gentleman, willing to retrieve his disastrous defeat in the matter of scrolls and contours and f-holes, again came to the front.
“Doesn’t it shine!” remarked that unfortunate youth, approvingly.
“Shine!” shouted my grandfather, indignantly,—“shine!” repeated he with rising voice, and rapping the back of the violin with his knuckles,—“do you call that shiny?” said he, with another rap, and holding the instrument in front of Billy. “Why, a tin pan shines,—a well-fed negro boy’s face shines,—and you say that shines,” he added, with an argumentative rap. “Is that the way you are taught to discriminate in the use of words at the University?” And the old gentleman smiled, mollified by Billy’s evident confusion and the shouts of laughter that greeted his discomfiture.
“Why, Uncle Tom, if that violin doesn’t shine, what does it do?”
“Why, it—well—I should say—ahem!—in fact, it—I—”
“What would you call it, Uncle Tom?” urged Billy, rallying bravely from his rout, and trying to assume a wicked smile.
“What would I call it? I would call it—well—the violin—confound it! I should hold my tongue rather than say that violin was shiny.” And the old gentleman turned upon his heel and stalked across the room; but Billy was not the man to relinquish his advantage.
“How, Uncle Tom, that is not fair,” said he, following up his adversary, and holding on to the lappel of his coat in an affectionately teasing manner. “Give us your word.”
“Shiny! shiny!” spluttered the old gentleman with testy scorn.
“Ah, but that won’t do. Let the company have your word, Uncle Tom.” And the young rogue tipped a wink to a knot of students. “The violin is—?”
“Effulgent!” shouted his adversary, wheeling upon him and bringing down the violin, held in both hands, with a swoop.
I shall take the liberty here of assuming that my readers are, as I was myself, till Charley enlightened me, ignorant of the fact that the varnish of the violins of the old masters is considered a great point. Collectors go into raptures over the peculiar lustre of their old instruments, which, they say, is the despair of modern makers. I have myself seen, or at least handled, but one of them,—my grandfather’s old Guarnerius,—and that, certainly, was singularly beautiful in this respect.
“Effulgent!” cried he, his noble brown eyes dilated, his head tossed back and swaying from side to side,—tapping gently, with the finger-nails of his right hand, the back of the violin, upon which the light of a neighboring lamp danced and flamed. The students indicated to Billy, in their hearty fashion, that he had got what he wanted, and Mr. Whacker, spurred on by their approval, rose to the height of his great argument.
“Just look at that,” said he, turning with enthusiasm to one of the students,—“just look at that,” he repeated, flashing the golden light into the eyes of another; “why, it almost seems to me that we have here the very rays that, a century ago, this maple wood absorbed in its pores from the sun of Italy.”
How much more my grandfather was going to say I know not; for he was interrupted by a storm of applause from his young auditors.
“I say, boys, that’s a regular old-fashioned ‘curl,’” whispered one of them.
“Uncle Tom,” said Billy, removing the bow from the case, “does this effulge any?”
“But, Mr. Whacker,” observed a fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman, “it strikes me that the important thing about a fiddle is its tone, not its varnish. Now, do you really think your Cremona superior to a twenty-dollar fiddle in tone? Honestly now, is there any difference worth mentioning?”
“Any difference? Heavens above! Why, listen!” And the old gentleman drew the bow slowly over double strings, till the air of the room seemed to palpitate with the rich harmony. “Did you ever hear anything like that?” exclaimed he, with flushing face; and he drew the bow again and again. There were exclamations of admiration—real or affected—all around the room.
The Don alone was silent.
I remember looking towards him with a natural curiosity to see what he—the only stranger present—appeared to think of the instrument; but he gave no sign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He was gazing fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of rapt look,—his head bowed, his lips firmly compressed, but twitching a little. His eyes had a certain glitter about them, strongly contrasting with their usual expression of unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley, but his eyes did not meet mine; for he had turned his chair away from the fire, and was scrutinizing the stranger’s face with a quiet but searching look.
“It is a little hoarse from long disuse,” said Mr. Whacker, drawing the bow slowly as before.
“Give us a tune, Uncle Tom?”
“Yes, yes!” joined in a chorus. “Give us a tune!”
“Pshaw!” said the old gentleman, “it would be a profanation to play a ‘tune’ on this instrument.”
“There is where I don’t agree with you, Mr. Whacker,” put in the fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman. “The last time I was in Richmond I went to hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wish never to hear again,—nothing but running up and down the strings, with de’il a bit of tune that I could see.”
“That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confound their science, say I.”
“Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, encouraged. “The fact is, it spoils a fiddler to teach him his notes. Music should come from the heart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billy here, but, so far as I am concerned, I would rather hear him than all the Ole Bulls and Paganinis that ever drew a bow.”
“Rather hear Billy? I should think so! Why, any left-handed negro fiddler can beat those scientific fellows all hollow.”
My grandfather, during the passage at arms that ensued upon the expression of these sentiments, grew rather warm, and at last appealed to the Don. He, as though loath to criticise the performance of our friend Billy, spoke guardedly. “I should think,” said he, “that music would be like anything else,—those who devoted most time to it would be most proficient.”
“Of gourse!” broke in the Herr, who had not allowed the discussion to draw him very far from the bowl of toddy. “Now, joost look at unser frient Pilly. Dot yung mon has a real dalent for de feedle,—but vot he blay? Noding als reels unt cheeks unt zuch dinks. Joost sent dot yung mon one time nach Europen, unt by a goot master. Donnerwetter, I show you somedink! Tausendteufels!” added he, draining his glass, “vot for a feedler dot yung Pilly make!”
I may remark that just in proportion as the Herr mollified his water did he dilute his English. Just in proportion as he approached the bottom of a punch-bowl did the language of Shakespeare and Milton become to him an obscure idiom.
“Won’t you try its tone?” said Mr. Whacker, offering the violin and bow to the Don.
“Oh,” replied he, deprecatingly.
“It’s of no consequence that you can’t play,” insisted the old gentleman. “Just try the tone. Here, this way,” added he, putting the violin under the Don’s chin.
It may seem strange that I, a bachelor, should be so fond of illustrating my scenes by means of babies; but as the whole frame-work and cast of this story compels me to marry at some future day, I may be allowed to say that the Don held the violin just as I have seen young fellows hold an infant that had been thrust into their arms by some mischievous young girl. Afraid to refuse to take it lest the mother be hurt, they are in momentary terror lest it fall.
“There! So!” exclaimed the old gentleman, adjusting the instrument.
While every one else smiled at the scene, Charley was, strangely enough, almost convulsed with a noiseless chuckle that brought the tears into his eyes.
“The old boy feels his toddy,” thought I.
The Don began to scrape dismally.
“Ah, don’t hold the bow so much in the middle!—So!—That’s better!—Now pull away! Keep the bow straight!—There, that’s right! So!—”
Charley rocked in his seat.
“Now, up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Very good! Down! Up! Bow straight!—”
Charley leaped from his chair and held his sides. Well, even Cato occasionally moistened his clay.
“So! Better still! Excellent! Upon my word, you are an apt scholar!”
Charley dropped into his seat, threw back his head, and shut his eyes.
The Don paused, smiling.
“What a tone!” exclaimed my grandfather. “Oh!” cried he with intense earnestness, “if—if I could but hear, once again, an artist play upon that violin!”
The smile passed from the Unknown’s face. A strange look came into his eyes, as though his thoughts were far away. His chin relaxed its hold upon the violin and pressed upon his breast. His right arm slowly descended till the tip of the bow almost touched the floor; and there he stood, his eyes fixed upon the ground. A stillness overspread the company. No one moved a muscle save Charley. He, with an odd smile in his eyes, softly drew from his pocket a small pen-knife and held it in his left hand, with the nail of his right thumb in the notch of the blade.
Slowly, and as if unconsciously to himself, the Don’s right arm began to move. The violin rose, somehow, till it found its way under his chin.
Charley opened his knife.
There were signs in the Unknown’s countenance of a sharp but momentary struggle, when his right arm suddenly sprang from its pendent position, and the wrist, arched like the neck of an Arab courser, stood, for a second, poised above the bridge.
Charley passed the blade of his knife through the threads that bound the bandage about his finger, and the linen rag fell to the floor; and he rose and folded his arms across his breast.
The bow descended upon the G string. The stranger gave one of those quick up-strokes with the lowest inch of the horse-hair, followed by a down-stroke of the whole length of the bow.