“Are you angry, Brother Chlodwig?”
“Yes—with myself.” And he hastened out.
Franka gazed after him and smiled.
CHAPTER XIX
YE YOUNG MAIDENS, LISTEN TO ME
The exercises on this second evening of the Rose-Week began as before with music. But it was a kind of music such as had never before, or anywhere else, been heard. A feeling of wonder, and unprecedented delight took possession of the audience—a delight which almost reached awe. It was a newly invented instrument, the tone of which had no resemblance to that of any other instrument. It was more nearly comparable to bell-tones, like cathedral chimes, loud and grave and vibrating.
In the midst of a crescendo the player of it suddenly ceased playing and said to the public:—
“What you are here listening to is the voice of a magician—the magician ‘Electricity.’ The instrument, as you see, is not large, and its mechanism is concealed; I invented it and constructed it. In honor of the Mæcenas who enabled me to accomplish my invention, I have christened it the ‘Toker Organ.’ It is played by any artist who understands the organ, but its tone and its timbre are the product of a nature-force tamed. The surprising thing is that the tone has such a sweetness that it can awake the keenest musical delight, and that its attainable power has no limits. The crescendo which I just now broke off can be made ever so many times more tremendous on this ‘Toker Organ.’ A shut-off has to be introduced here, for otherwise the strength of the tone-waves would increase so that it might not only burst your ear-drums but even the ceiling of the hall. Yet, in open space, on a mountain-top or from a lighthouse in the open sea, one might with impunity fill a circumference of miles with music. And because you are now assured that the sweet tone, however powerful it may be, remains sweet and tender, and will never become a deafening noise, I will once more swell to a hitherto unknown majesty of power, but certainly not to be unendurable, as the shut-off is introduced a long way before that point;—I will continue my playing. I choose an old song known to you all, the text of which seems appropriate to this festival week; ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’”
These words, spoken in English,—the young inventor was an American engineer of the Edison school,—were repeated in French and German by interpreters. Then the young man again seated himself at the instrument, allowing the resounding bells to give out the melancholy melody, ever fuller and fuller, so that it seemed to the listeners as if the whole hall were filled with the vibrating waves of sound. When the crescendo grew four or five times as loud as it was when the player had broken off the first time, voices were heard here and there in the hall as if crying in anguish: “Enough, enough!” The artist nodded and instituted immediately a diminuendo, and gradually the melody, just as it had mounted, so now it decreased to the most thread-like pianissimo, dying away as if in the remotest distance.
Stormy applause now broke loose. Something never before known had been experienced, life was enriched by a new sensation. Then followed the social intermission. Many mounted the platform to examine the instrument. A buzz of conversation filled the hall. Impressions regarding the marvelous music were exchanged. A composer told his delight that music had achieved now a new means of expression of such inimitable beauty. An officer of the general staff remarked that, in the infinite possibilities of overwhelming noise, there might be something of strategic importance. A passionate lover of nature cried, “Well, I must say: now that the sublime emptiness of heavenly space is to be darkened with every kind of whirring aviating rabble, the splendid silence of the mountains and the seas will be desecrated by electrically bellowed street-songs.” On the other hand, a philosopher remarked thoughtfully: “Boundless powers put into the hand of man—what prospects open up!”
Coriolan expressed his views to his cousins: “Didn’t I tell you so? Tingel-tangel, klingel-klangel.... Variété.... And the next number is the appearance of Franka Garlett, who is still, unfortunately, our kinswoman. Where is she hiding? She is not to be seen anywhere.”