His money was gone, his illusion had changed to disgust. He had withdrawn in melancholy from the world, seeking to hide himself and his disappointment. He wished nothing but to forget and be forgotten:--that is in the present; from the future, a far-off, misty future, he still hoped something--for his romance. Meanwhile he supported existence by copying notes,--like Rousseau. Two, three years pa.s.sed by, Gesa became as handsome as a youth in a picture. At Delileo's side he could not fail to gain cultivation of mind and heart, but a.s.sociated with the eccentric St. Simonian he remained a stranger to all discipline of character. More and more there was revealed a want of concentration, and a vague dreaminess in his nature which to a practiced observer, would have boded no good for his future. He could never maintain a medium between relaxed indolence and exhausting ardor: in tough, persistent capacity for work he failed altogether, and whatever did not come to him by inspiration, he acquired with greater difficulty than did the most commonplace pupil of the conservatory.

Upon all this, however, his violin-professor made no reflections. Gesa not only played his instrument with a skill unheard of for his years, but he also improvised with wonderful originality, at least, so said the professor--who marked nothing but the gigantic strides of the boy's progress, was proud of his pupil and presented him to one amateur after another.

The phlegmatic Brusselers were enchanted by his musical extravagances, because he was named Gesa, had a handsome brunette face, and was said to have sprung from Hungarian origin. Their enthusiasm at his performance always culminated in the same words--"how gipsy-like!

_Comme c'est tsigane!_"

At last came a day when Gesa was to play for the first time at a public concert. With the colossal conceit of youth, he rejoiced at the thought of his debut The apprehensive Gaston Delileo on the contrary, lost appet.i.te and sleep.

Anxiously antic.i.p.ating a disappointment for the boy, he spent most of his time in exhorting Gesa not to care much for a fiasco; an exhortation which the young musician took very impatiently, and ran away from it. With his hat dragged down self-a.s.sertingly over his ears, he stamped fuming up and down the Rue Ravestein, while the sad elder crept back and forth in his chamber above, and foreboded.

On the concert evening, Delileo could not be moved to enter the music hall. Breathless and panting, he stood before the performer's entrance, and held his fingers in his ears. Suddenly, in spite of his efforts to exclude every sound, he heard a strange tumult. He let his hands fall.

Was it a fire alarm? No, it was clapping from hundreds of hands and shouting from hundreds of throats. The next moment he had burst sobbing into the green-room, and held his nurseling in his arms.

All the other performers pressed the young fellow's hands, praised him, and promised him a brilliant future. With that nave arrogance which one so easily pardons in young G.o.ds, even while it provokes a pitying smile, he received all these compliments as if they were his proper tribute; but even his unabashed self-possession gave way when the door opened and an elegant young man entered holding out both hands--Alphonse de Sterny.

"My dear young friend," he cried, "I could not let the evening pa.s.s without knowing you--without congratulating you." Then the young violinist's head sank, he trembled from head to foot, and his hands grew ice cold in those of the great virtuoso.

VI

Alphonse de Sterny! The name in those days exercised an enchantment that was mingled with awe upon the ears of every one, be he artist or amateur, who cared for music. In our coldly critical times we can form no idea of the insane idolatry that was addressed, during the decade of the fifties to one or two piano virtuosos. De Sterny was among the most famous of these. The Sterny craze appeared like an epidemic in every town where he gave his concerts. At the same time the riddle of his power was hard to solve. His envious contemporaries a.s.serted bluntly that he owed his triumphs not so much to the artistic excellence of his playing as to his agreeable person and gracious manners. He was the perfection of a _homme a succes_. Gloved and cravated with just precision enough for elegance, sufficiently careless to appear distinguished, ready and malicious enough to pa.s.s for witty, dissipated and extravagant enough to be credited with genius, he was also very handsome, wore his hair parted low in the middle of his forehead, and always dressed with quiet correctness in the latest fashion but one, as became a person of the best gentility, avoiding all artist eccentricities. His conversation was amusing, his manners unimpeachable. He was the natural son of a French diplomat, called himself de Sterny after his birthplace, and had inherited an income of twenty-five thousand francs, as the world knew; from an Italian princess--as the world did not know. His piano playing was beautifully finished, a shower of pearls, a chain of flowers, with a masterly balanced technique, carried out in a dignified execution, never one false note, never any vulgar pounding.

Certainly the great Hungarian pianist, to whose performance a handful of false notes belonged as part of the effect, was wont to remark bitingly that "de Sterny played like a countess." But de Sterny, to whom the speech was brought by kind friends, only smiled amiably, and continued, at least in the beginning of his career, to delicately caress an instrument which the other pianists maltreated, and electrified a public satiated with musical orgies, by his moderation.

He moved almost exclusively in the best social circles, yet he always showed himself ready to do a service for a fellow artist.

Altogether he was, when Gesa first became acquainted with him, a perfectly shallow, perfectly selfish, uncommonly talented, very good-humored, very vain man who loved to hear himself talked about.

Charlatan he only became later, in order to maintain himself upon the pedestal whither public adulation had driven him. The pedestal was too high! Many another might have found himself growing dizzy up there.

He loved to patronize, and for that reason did not content himself with pressing Gesa's hands, but gave him his address, and invited him to call upon him next morning at the Hotel de Flandres, "so that we can talk over your future," said he, cheeringly. Then he was very amiable to the other artists a.s.sembled in the green-room, then he held out his hand to Delileo, over whose cheeks the tears were running down, then he clapped the debutant on the shoulder, wished him "good luck!" and disappeared.

At the little artist supper, which the manager had arranged for the performers, Gesa sat, ate not a mouthful, and spoke not a word. With pale cheeks and fixed eyes he gazed before him into the future,--a future in which the trees bore golden leaves, and their fruit sparkled like diamonds--a future in which dust and mold were unknown things, where forms of radiant beauty wandered among thickets of thornless roses, and the laurel trees bowed before him.

In those days Gesa von Zuylen's eyes were not contracted like the eyes of a wild beast that shuns the light; they were wide open, like a young eagle's whom the sun itself does not blind.

VII

No one could take up a gifted but obscure beginner more cordially than did the great de Sterny the little Von Zuylen. He invited the boy to breakfast, two, three times in succession, and Gesa became a familiar part of the furniture, perhaps rather a favorite ornament in the virtuoso's elegant hotel apartments. He was always obliged to bring his violin, and to improvise for de Sterny, who accompanied him on the piano, with the ready skill in following another's feeling, which was his peculiar gift. Then he would draw Gesa into conversation and laugh immoderately at the boy's original notions. Soon he could not meet an acquaintance without crying out to him, "Have you seen my little Gipsy?

I must make you acquainted with my Gipsy. He improvises like Chopin, only quite otherwise. Yesterday he quoted Shakespeare to me, and to-day he discovered that Marsala is not so good as Tokay. And he is handsome,--'_a croquer_.'"

In Brussels society the rumor of an "Eighth Wonder of the World" began to spread, and at last the Princess L---- arranged a musical soiree for his benefit, on which occasion truly the "eighth wonder" came very near losing his prestige altogether. De Sterny took charge with amiable pedantry, of all the details of his protege's appearance, had him measured for a pair of patent leather shoes, and on the eventful evening tied the boy's white cravat with his own hands, and brought him in his own carriage to the L---- palace. But already in the brilliant vestibule, adorned with old weapons, and two mysterious black suits of armor, Gesa's robust self-conceit vanished completely. He who had faced the public at a concert with a lion's courage now clung with almost childish anxiety to de Sterny.

"Have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried the princess to de Sterny, as he entered. She was a blonde lady, uncommonly good-natured, very lively, and very short-sighted, for which reason she always held her gla.s.s to her eyes. "Have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried she, in a tone as if that were something comic.

"Of course--here it is,--it is named Gesa von Zuylen--Gesa von Zuylen, _c'est droll_--is it not, princess? May I beg that you will deal a little carefully with my 'eighth wonder'--it is a little sensitive!"

"So--really! That is charming. I am glad when a young artist displays a certain pride, it is always becoming. What eyes he has,"--staring at Gesa through her gla.s.s--"my husband told me about his eyes. A real true gipsy.--They say he quoted Shakespeare of late--I laughed so at that!"-- Then, as other guests entered, "pray, endeavor to make the 'eighth wonder' comfortable, de Sterny, you are entirely at home here."

This was the princess's manner of dealing carefully with a sensitive "eighth wonder."

De Sterny placed the boy temporarily in a corner, out of which he soon drew him forth to be presented to several ladies and gentlemen. Gesa a.s.sumed a haughty bearing. The ladies especially were very friendly, and very patronizing, only it scarcely occurred to one of them to address a word to the boy himself. They all talked about him, in his presence, as if he were a picture, or as if he could not understand French. They wondered, and praised and then forgot him while he stood before them, and talked among themselves of other things. It grew more and more uncomfortable for him, and as his embarra.s.sment increased he felt as if he were walking painfully upon smooth thin ice. He shivered a little. Everything around him was so bright and cold. The soft, fine, flute-like voices of good society hurt him. Light and stinging as snowflakes, their words flew against his burning cheeks. He would have liked to weep. He was an "eighth world-wonder"--they stared at him through a lorgnette, discussed him,--and cared for him no further.

Listening he heard the words "comes from the Rue Ravestein."--"What is that, the Rue Ravestein?" "What is it? That is difficult to explain to a lady,"--"_vraiment_?" "But he gives a perfectly amazing impression of good breeding." "_Il n'a pas du tout e' air peuple!_" "But since he is a gipsy,"--Gesa felt his throat tighten.

"Shall we not hear you to-day?" asked the ladies who crowded around de Sterny.

"Me?" he replied, with a laugh, "me? I am only manager to-day--and besides I suffer horribly from stage fright."

The moment had come! Gesa must play: his heart beat to suffocation. It was not he, but a stolid clod stiffened with bashfulness who stood up and laid his fingers on the strings. In the middle of Mendelssohn's G minor Concerto he stuck fast, stumbled over himself, picked up, and scrambled painfully through to the end. The composition was never worse played. De Sterny was beside himself. Gesa would have liked to sink through the floor.

A few people applauded because they did not know any better, and a few others because they had not been listening at all. But the greater part shrugged their shoulders, and said "de Sterny is an enthusiast."

And when the virtuoso tried to say a word in excuse for his protege and declared he had never heard him play so ill, they answered "Bah! we don't blame you for anything, de Sterny. We know you are an enthusiast."

The company chatted and laughed, and nibbled a little refreshment in their careless fashion. Then came a deputation of the handsomest women and begged de Sterny to play, whereupon he seated himself at the piano with his usual good-humored readiness, and smiling consciousness of success. After he had played he went to Gesa and said:

"My dear boy, collect yourself! Could you not forget that any one heard you but me, and improvise something? Try to remember the theme you last played to me. Your future depends upon it. And I would so like to be proud of you!"

These last words worked a miracle.

"I will play--only--only--that I may not shame you!" murmured Gesa.

The boy was deathly pale, and trembled all over as he raised his violin, his eyes lighted up--and then hid themselves behind their dark lashes.

A rain of fire fell before his vision, a whirl of emotion filled his breast, wild pa.s.sionate melodies sounded in his ears. Had he dreamed them, or had a complaining autumn storm driven them hither from the land of his father? Were they echoes of the songs his mother had listened to from her lover, and later had hushed her child to sleep with them, as she rocked him on the threshold of the house in the shabby little street, where the sad Saviour looked hopelessly down from the Crucifix on the grey church wall? Who knows! His violin sang and sobbed as only a Hungarian gipsy-violin can; harsh modulations, piercing melodies, a mad tempest of pa.s.sion,--then one last burst of wild, reckless hilarity--and he broke off, breathless, and gazing fixedly before him. He knew he had done his best. His ears listened greedily. If they expected a storm of applause as at his public debut, they were disappointed. Only a little hum, like the dry leaves that an east wind is rustling, buzzed through the room, and as if afar off he heard the words "_Charmant, magnifique_, original, tsigane"--His head sank, a black cloud floated before his eyes. De Sterny came up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Bravo! Bravo!" he cried, "we are rehabilitated!" and turning to the company with a triumphant smile,

"Now did I exaggerate?"

But Gesa listened no longer for the answer of the salon. He pressed de Sterny's hand to his hot lips, and burst into tears. The virtuoso was his heaven, his G.o.d. "Mais voyons! grand enfant!" said his patron soothingly. And the "world" was enchanted, even more of course by the generosity of the great pianist than by the talent of his protege!

"What is a chimera?" asked the little Gipsy of his great friend one day.

It was in the forenoon. Gesa had been turning over the leaves of a French book which he did not understand, "Les Fleurs du Mal," by Baudelaire. De Sterny meanwhile had been writing letters. He wore a yellow dressing gown of j.a.panese silk, in which he looked like a large mullein. He yawned and stretched himself, looked pale and used up. That he had not slept regularly for fifteen years was very evident from his appearance.

"What is a chimera?" asked Gesa.

"A chimera--a chimera--it is a siren with wings," defined the virtuoso, turning round.

"H'm!" Gesa lowered his eyes thoughtfully, then raised them inquiringly. "An enn.o.bled siren then?"

"Yes,--as one takes it."

De Sterny sat down by the chimney to warm his feet. "Deuced cold!--hand me the chartreuse, so--Yes, a refined siren if you like," he continued.