Amy Lowell - The Cremona Violin

　　Part First

　　Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.

　　A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind

　　Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before

　　Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind

　　The distant town was black, and sharp defined

　　Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,

　　Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

　　A pasted city on a purple ground,

　　Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud

　　Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound

　　Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,

　　Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud

　　Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.

　　Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

　　She bustled round to shake by constant moving

　　The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,

　　She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving

　　Its careful setting, then her own attire

　　Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher

　　She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting

　　A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

　　This way or that to suit her. At last

　　sitting,

　　Or rather plumping down upon a chair,

　　She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,

　　And watched the rain upon the window glare

　　In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare

　　Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!"

　　She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!"

　　A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.

　　Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,

　　Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping

　　She stood and gazed along the street. A man

　　Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran

　　Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear,

　　What in the name of patience brings you here?

　　Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin

　　I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.

　　This clasp is very much too worn and thin.

　　I'll take the other fiddle out to-night

　　If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite

　　Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I --

　　Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry.

　　Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how

　　are you?

　　A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.

　　Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few

　　Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.

　　What do you say? That you were feared for me?

　　Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.

　　I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk."

　　Her needles still, her hands upon her lap

　　Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat

　　And watched the rain-run window. In his nap

　　Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that,

　　Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,

　　Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room

　　Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.

　　But even rainy windows, silver-lit

　　By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give

　　But poor content to loneliness, and it

　　Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive

　　And down her eagerness and learn to live

　　In placid quiet. While her husband slept,

　　Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.

　　Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man

　　Gentle and unambitious, that alone

　　Had kept him back. He played as few men can,

　　Drawing out of his instrument a tone

　　So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone

　　Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,

　　Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.

　　Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,

　　Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine

　　Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life

　　Was flowering out of early discipline

　　When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine

　　The belly was. The back of broadly curled

　　Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.

　　The slanting, youthful sound-holes

　　through

　　The belly of fine, vigorous pine

　　Mellowed each note and blew

　　It out again with a woody flavour

　　Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are

　　When breezes in their needles jar.

　　The varnish was an orange-brown

　　Lustered like glass that's long laid down

　　Under a crumbling villa stone.

　　Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point

　　Straight up the corners. Each curve

　　and joint

　　Clear, and bold, and thin.

　　Such was Herr Theodore's violin.

　　Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone

　　With his best violin, the rain being stopped,

　　Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone

　　Watching the embers which the fire dropped.

　　The china shone upon the dresser, topped

　　By polished copper vessels which her skill

　　Kept brightly burnished. It was very still.

　　An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head.

　　Herr Altgelt had been practising before

　　The night's performance. Charlotta had plead

　　With him to stay with her. Even at the door

　　She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore

　　You for this evening, Theodore," she had said.

　　"Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead."

　　"A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her

　　ear.

　　"You'd like to have our good Elector turn

　　Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer

　　Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn,

　　My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're

　　stern,

　　And cold, and only love your work, I know.

　　But Theodore, for this evening, do not go."

　　But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,

　　For she had kept him talking. Now she sat

　　Alone again, always alone, the trend

　　Of all her thinking brought her back to that

　　She wished to banish. What would life be? What?

　　For she was young, and loved, while he was moved

　　Only by music. Each day that was proved.

　　Each day he rose and practised. While

　　he played,

　　She stopped her work and listened, and her heart

　　Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed

　　And longing, she would hide from him her smart.

　　"Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start

　　She gave, and she would run to him and cry,

　　And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie.

　　I'm glad I played it well. But such

　　a taking!

　　You'll hear the thing enough before I've done."

　　And she would draw away from him, still shaking.

　　Had he but guessed she was another one,

　　Another violin. Her strings were aching,

　　Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again

　　He played and she almost broke at the strain.

　　Where was the use of thinking of it now,

　　Sitting alone and listening to the clock!

　　She'd best make haste and knit another row.

　　Three hours at least must pass before his knock

　　Would startle her. It always was a shock.

　　She listened -- listened -- for so long before,

　　That when it came her hearing almost tore.

　　She caught herself just starting in to listen.

　　What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks!

　　She wandered to the window, for the glisten

　　Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks

　　Of her two candles. Still she could not fix

　　To anything. The moon in a broad swath

　　Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.

　　Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high

　　And black, their shadows doubling them. The night

　　Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh

　　Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight

　　Of insects, and the smell of aconite,

　　And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted

　　Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted

　　The even flags. She let herself go dreaming

　　Of Theodore her husband, and the tune

　　From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming

　　Changed -- shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon

　　Showed her a passer-by, inopportune

　　Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.

　　Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.

　　"The best laid plans of mice and men," alas!

　　The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.

　　Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,

　　Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state,

　　Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,

　　Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed,

　　And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.

　　He seemed a proper fellow standing there

　　In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced

　　With silver, and he wore his own brown hair

　　Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced

　　A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased

　　Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position

　　Was hardly easy. When would his volition

　　Suggest his walking on? And then that

　　tune!

　　A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo'

　　Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune

　　Had brought him there to stare about him so?

　　"Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!"

　　Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,

　　And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.

　　Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,

　　Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.

　　If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes

　　Streamed over her. He would not care a fig,

　　He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig

　　Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose

　　Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose

　　Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why

　　Do you stand there? I really must insist

　　Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly

　　To stay so long." The young man gave a twist

　　And turned about, and in the amethyst

　　Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen

　　From the green bushes which had been her prison.

　　He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.

　　"Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea

　　I was not quite alone, and that is how

　　I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer

　　Impertinence. I thought no one was here,

　　And really gardens cry to be admired.

　　To-night especially it seemed required.

　　And may I beg to introduce myself?

　　Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?"

　　Charlotta told him. And the artful elf

　　Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame.

　　So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came

　　To conversation with him. When she went

　　Into the house, she found the evening spent.

　　Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,

　　With all excitement in him burned away.

　　It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,

　　And he had played his very best to-day,

　　But afterwards he had been forced to stay

　　And practise with the stupid ones. His head

　　Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.

　　Part Second

　　Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt

　　played,

　　And the four strings of his violin

　　Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring.

　　The notes rose into the wide sun-mote

　　Which slanted through the window,

　　They lay like coloured beads a-row,

　　They knocked together and parted,

　　And started to dance,

　　Skipping, tripping, each one slipping

　　Under and over the others so

　　That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance

　　Or a comet's tail,

　　Behind them.

　　Then a wail arose -- crescendo --

　　And dropped from off the end of the bow,

　　And the dancing stopped.

　　A scent of lilies filled the room,

　　Long and slow. Each large white bloom

　　Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a

　　blessed censer,

　　And the hum of an organ tone,

　　And they waved like fans in a hall of stone

　　Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone.

　　Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.

　　Like smoke they rose from the violin --

　　Then faded as a swifter bowing

　　Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing

　　In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion

　　Between broad meadows to an ocean

　　Wide as a day and blue as a flower,

　　Where every hour

　　Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and

　　squealed,

　　And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,

　　And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered

　　With spray.

　　And away a couple of frigates were starting

　　To race to Java with all sails set,

　　Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,

　　And wide moonsails; and the shining rails

　　Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun.

　　All the sails went up with a run:

　　"They call me Hanging Johnny,

　　Away-i-oh;

　　They call me Hanging Johnny,

　　So hang,

　　boys, hang."

　　And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,

　　And the ship heeled over to the breeze.

　　He drew her into the shade of the sails,

　　And whispered tales

　　Of voyages in the China seas,

　　And his arm around her

　　Held and bound her.

　　She almost swooned,

　　With the breeze and the moon

　　And the slipping sea,

　　And he beside her,

　　Touching her, leaning --

　　The ship careening,

　　With the white moon steadily shining over

　　Her and her lover,

　　Theodore, still her lover!

　　Then a quiver fell on the crowded

　　notes,

　　And slowly floated

　　A single note which spread and spread

　　Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,

　　And noises shivered throughout its length,

　　And tried its strength.

　　They pulled it, and tore it,

　　And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore

　　it.

　　Then a wide rent

　　Split the arching tent,

　　And balls of fire spurted through,

　　Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.

　　One by one they were quenched as they fell,

　　Only the blue burned steadily.

　　Paler and paler it grew, and -- faded -- away.

　　Herr Altgelt

　　stopped.

　　"Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?

　　I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner.

　　What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day.

　　I wonder how it happens I'm the winner

　　Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner;

　　You're like a bag of feathers on my knee.

　　Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me.

　　I'm glad you're going out this afternoon.

　　The days are getting short, and I'm so tied

　　At the Court Theatre my poor little bride

　　Has not much junketing I fear, but soon

　　I'll ask our manager to grant a boon.

　　To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you,

　　And when I go, why Lotta can come too.

　　Now dinner, Love. I want some onion

　　soup

　　To whip me up till that rehearsal's over.

　　You know it's odd how some women can stoop!

　　Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,

　　A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover

　　If it's his money. But she lives alone

　　Practically. Gebnitz is a stone,

　　Pores over books all day, and has no ear

　　For his wife's singing. Artists must have men;

　　They need appreciation. But it's queer

　　What messes people make of their lives, when

　　They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then

　　His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once.

　　I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce."

　　Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went

　　Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind

　　Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent,

　　Audacious wind it was, now close behind,

　　Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined

　　The strings across her face, then from in front

　　Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt,

　　Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,

　　Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound

　　Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing

　　Itself upon her, so that she was wound

　　In draperies as clinging as those found

　　Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze

　　Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze

　　The shops and houses had a quality

　　Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp

　　And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.

　　The city streets were twanging like a harp.

　　Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly

　　She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing

　　Toward what destination she was going.

　　She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop,

　　Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns,

　　And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop

　　And then float up again with lightness. Browns

　　Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns

　　Amid the gaiety of topaz seals,

　　Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels.

　　A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard

　　Delighted her. And rings of every size

　　Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes,

　　Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred

　　To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred

　　Like rockets bursting on a festal day.

　　Charlotta could not tear herself away.

　　With eyes glued tightly on a golden box,

　　Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue,

　　Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks

　　Of shades and lustres always darting through

　　Its level, superimposing sheet of blue,

　　Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching.

　　She started at the words: "Am I encroaching?"

　　"Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I

　　thought

　　We were to meet at three, is it quite that?"

　　"No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught

　　The trick of missing you. One thing is flat,

　　I cannot go on this way. Life is what

　　Might best be conjured up by the word: `Hell'.

　　Dearest, when will you come?" Lotta, to quell

　　His effervescence, pointed to the gems

　　Within the window, asked him to admire

　　A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems

　　Uneasily the burning of a fire.

　　Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire.

　　Little by little she wooed him to her mood

　　Until at last he promised to be good.

　　But here he started on another tack;

　　To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose.

　　She vainly urged against him all her lack

　　Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use

　　A ring or brooch her husband might accuse

　　Her of extravagance, and ask to see

　　A strict accounting, or still worse might be.

　　But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why

　　Should he not give her what he liked? And in

　　He went, determined certainly to buy

　　A thing so beautiful that it would win

　　Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin

　　He would outscore by such a handsome jewel

　　That Lotta could no longer be so cruel!

　　Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways.

　　If she went in with him, the shopman might

　　Recognize her, give her her name; in days

　　To come he could denounce her. In her fright

　　She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite

　　Capable of pursuing. By and by

　　She pushed the door and entered hurriedly.

　　It took some pains to keep him from bestowing

　　A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses,

　　The setting twined to represent the growing

　　Tendrils and leaves, upon her. "Who supposes

　　I could obtain such things! It simply closes

　　All comfort for me." So he changed his mind

　　And bought as slight a gift as he could find.

　　A locket, frosted over with seed pearls,

　　Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck,

　　Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls

　　Should lie in it. And further to bedeck

　　His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck,

　　The merest puff of a thin, linked chain

　　To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain

　　From weeping as they sauntered down the street.

　　She did not want the locket, yet she did.

　　To have him love her she found very sweet,

　　But it is hard to keep love always hid.

　　Then there was something in her heart which chid

　　Her, told her she loved Theodore in him,

　　That all these meetings were a foolish whim.

　　She thought of Theodore and the life they led,

　　So near together, but so little mingled.

　　The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead,

　　And the fresh wind about her body tingled;

　　The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled;

　　Charlotta held her breath for very fear,

　　About her in the street she seemed to hear:

　　"They call me Hanging Johnny,

　　Away-i-oh;

　　They call me Hanging Johnny,

　　So hang, boys, hang."

　　And it was Theodore, under the racing skies,

　　Who held her and who whispered in her ear.

　　She knew her heart was telling her no lies,

　　Beating and hammering. He was so dear,

　　The touch of him would send her in a queer

　　Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning

　　For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning

　　Street after street as Heinrich wished it so.

　　He had some aim, she had forgotten what.

　　Their progress was confused and very slow,

　　But at the last they reached a lonely spot,

　　A garden far above the highest shot

　　Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town

　　Spread open like a chequer-board laid down.

　　Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest,

　　Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain

　　About her neck. She treated it in jest,

　　And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain.

　　Then suddenly she felt as though a strain

　　Were put upon her, collared like a slave,

　　Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave.

　　She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands

　　To snap it, but they held with odd persistence.

　　Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands

　　Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance

　　Melted within her, from remotest distance,

　　Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near,

　　And giving way she knew him very dear.

　　For long he held her, and they both gazed down

　　At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river.

　　From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown

　　Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver

　　Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver

　　When, opening the locket, they were placed

　　Under the glass, commingled and enlaced.

　　"When will you have it so with us?" He

　　sighed.

　　She shook her head. He pressed her further. "No,

　　No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried

　　To free herself and rise. He held her so,

　　Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go.

　　"But you love me," he whispered, with his face

　　Burning against her through her kerchief's lace.

　　Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew

　　That what her husband lit this other man

　　Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few

　　Women were so discreet as she, who ran

　　No danger since she knew what things to ban.

　　She opened her house door at five o'clock,

　　A short half-hour before her husband's knock.

　　Part Third

　　The `Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed

　　With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing,

　　That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed

　　With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring

　　Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting

　　Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting

　　From muffled tympani made a dark slatting

　　Across the silver shimmering of flutes;

　　A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed;

　　The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes,

　　And mutterings of double basses trailed

　　Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed

　　Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter

　　They lost themselves amid the general clatter.

　　Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone,

　　Felt lifted up into another world.

　　Before her eyes a thousand candles shone

　　In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled

　　And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled.

　　She smelt the smoke of candles guttering,

　　And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering

　　All round her in the boxes. Red and

　　gold,

　　The house, like rubies set in filigree,

　　Filliped the candlelight about, and bold

　　Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly

　　Ogled fair beauties in the balcony.

　　An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling.

　　Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling

　　About a play-bill he had bought and lost.

　　Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected.

　　Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post

　　Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected

　　The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected

　　When with no glance about him or her way,

　　He lifted up his violin to play.

　　The curtain went up? Perhaps. If

　　so,

　　Charlotta never saw it go.

　　The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing

　　Only came to her like the ringing

　　Of bells at a festa

　　Which swing in the air

　　And nobody realizes they are there.

　　They jingle and jangle,

　　And clang, and bang,

　　And never a soul could tell whether they rang,

　　For the plopping of guns and rockets

　　And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's

　　pockets,

　　And the shuffling and clapping of feet,

　　And the loud flapping

　　Of flags, with the drums,

　　As the military comes.

　　It's a famous tune to walk to,

　　And I wonder where they're off to.

　　Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums.

　　But the rhythm changes as though a mist

　　Were curling and twisting

　　Over the landscape.

　　For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog

　　Encompasses her. Then her senses jog

　　To the breath of a stately minuet.

　　Herr Altgelt's violin is set

　　In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats

　　and advances,

　　To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court

　　dances.

　　Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights

　　When stars shine in the quiet river. And

　　against the lights

　　Blundering insects knock,

　　And the `Rathaus' clock

　　Booms twice, through the shrill sounds

　　Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds.

　　Pressed against him in the mazy wavering

　　Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering

　　She leans upon the beating, throbbing

　　Music. Laughing, sobbing,

　　Feet gliding after sliding feet;

　　His -- hers --

　　The ballroom blurs --

　　She feels the air

　　Lifting her hair,

　　And the lapping of water on the stone stair.

　　He is there! He is there!

　　Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins,

　　That the dancers may dance, and never discover

　　The old stone stair leading down to the river

　　With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over

　　Her and her lover.

　　Theodore, still her lover!

　　The evening passed like this, in a half faint,

　　Delirium with waking intervals

　　Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint

　　Of a large company, the constant calls

　　For oranges or syrops from the stalls

　　Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro,

　　Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito.

　　She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded,

　　The music vaunted as most excellent.

　　The scenery and the costumes were applauded,

　　The latter it was whispered had been sent

　　From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent

　　A fortune on them, so the gossips said.

　　Charlotta felt a lightness in her head.

　　When the next act began, her eyes were swimming,

　　Her prodded ears were aching and confused.

　　The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming

　　Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused

　　Into the music, Theodore's music! Used

　　To hear him play, she caught his single tone.

　　For all she noticed they two were alone.

　　Part Fourth

　　Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street,

　　Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down

　　Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat

　　A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown

　　Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown

　　The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes

　　Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise.

　　Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm,

　　Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman

　　And ordered off. However, no great harm

　　Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan

　　When Theodore, her belated guardian,

　　Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling,

　　Half out of fear, half out of the assembling

　　Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given.

　　Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know.

　　"Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!"

　　"Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so?

　　Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow

　　Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops,

　　A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops."

　　He was so simple, so matter-of-fact,

　　Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say

　　To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact

　　Kept him explaining all the homeward way

　　How this thing had gone well, that badly. "Stay,

　　Theodore!" she cried at last. "You know to me

　　Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy."

　　And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed

　　Herself so much, and said so. "But it's good

　　To be got home again." He was employed

　　In looking at his violin, the wood

　　Was old, and evening air did it no good.

　　But when he drew up to the table for tea

　　Something about his wife's vivacity

　　Struck him as hectic, worried him in short.

　　He talked of this and that but watched her close.

　　Tea over, he endeavoured to extort

　　The cause of her excitement. She arose

　　And stood beside him, trying to compose

　　Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life,

　　And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife.

　　Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp,

　　Her music-kindled love crashed on him there.

　　Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp

　　Her arms about him, weighing down his chair,

　　Sobbing out all her hours of despair.

　　"Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved.

　　Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved."

　　Theodore went under in this tearing wave,

　　He yielded to it, and its headlong flow

　　Filled him with all the energy she gave.

　　He was a youth again, and this bright glow,

　　This living, vivid joy he had to show

　　Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying,

　　She asked assurances there's no denying.

　　Over and over again her questions, till

　　He quite convinced her, every now and then

　　She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still.

　　But later when they were composed and when

　　She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen,"

　　He asked, "how is it your love has withstood

　　My inadvertence? I was made of wood."

　　She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly,

　　That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky

　　To her. And even if conscience were unruly

　　She salved it by neat sophistries, but why

　　Suppose her insincere, it was no lie

　　She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot

　　As though he'd never been within earshot.

　　But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing

　　Fumbled against the locket where it lay

　　Upon her neck. "What is this thing I'm pressing?"

　　He asked. "Let's bring it to the light of day."

　　He lifted up the locket. "It should stay

　　Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste.

　　To keep it hidden surely is a waste."

　　Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused

　　Out of her happiness. The locket brought

　　A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused

　　Under its icy spurting she was caught,

　　And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought

　　The clasp, but with such art was this contrived

　　Her fumbling fingers never once arrived

　　Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and

　　round,

　　She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring

　　And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound,

　　Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing

　　To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string

　　Binding her folly to her, and those curls

　　Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls!

　　Again she tried to break the cord. It

　　stood.

　　"Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged. But he

　　Refused, and being in a happy mood,

　　Twitted her with her inefficiency,

　　Then looking at her very seriously:

　　"I think, Charlotta, it is well to have

　　Always about one what a mother gave.

　　As she has taken the great pains to send

　　This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be

　　Ingratitude if you do not intend

　　To carry it about you constantly.

　　With her fine taste you cannot disagree,

　　The locket is most beautifully designed."

　　He opened it and there the curls were, twined.

　　Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches.

　　She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze.

　　Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches,

　　She heard her husband asking: "What are those?"

　　Put out her hand quickly to interpose,

　　But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded

　　At the calm way the question was propounded.

　　"A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare.

　　Indeed I will not let you put it off.

　　A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!"

　　Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough.

　　"Never with my connivance shall you doff

　　This charming gift." He kissed her on the cheek,

　　And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek.

　　When later in their room she lay awake,

　　Watching the moonlight slip along the floor,

　　She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake.

　　She had loved Heinrich also, and the core

　　Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore

　　She vowed from now to break this double life

　　And see herself only as Theodore's wife.

　　Part Fifth

　　It was no easy matter to convince

　　Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say

　　That though they could not meet (he saw her wince)

　　She still must keep the locket to allay

　　Suspicion in her husband. She would pay

　　Him from her savings bit by bit -- the oath

　　He swore at that was startling to them both.

　　Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt

　　Adhered to it, and suffered no regret.

　　She found her husband all that she had felt

　　His music to contain. Her days were set

　　In his as though she were an amulet

　　Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining;

　　Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining.

　　Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks

　　Were furbished up to seem like rituals.

　　She baked and brewed as one who only asks

　　The right to serve. Her daily manuals

　　Of prayer were duties, and her festivals

　　When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said

　　She had a knack in making up a bed.

　　So Autumn went, and all the mountains round

　　The city glittered white with fallen snow,

　　For it was Winter. Over the hard ground

　　Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow.

　　On the swept flags behind the currant row

　　Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip

　　Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership

　　Was first again. This evening he had

　　got

　　Important news. The opera ordered from

　　Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot,

　　The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come

　　Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot

　　From copying, had been tried over. Never

　　Had any music started such a fever.

　　The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse,

　　The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made,

　　With such a great attraction through the course

　　Of Carnival time. In what utter shade

　　All other cities would be left! The trade

　　In music would all drift here naturally.

　　In his excitement he forgot his tea.

　　Lotta was forced to take his cup and put

　　It in his hand. But still he rattled on,

　　Sipping at intervals. The new catgut

　　Strings he was using gave out such a tone

　　The "Maestro" had remarked it, and had gone

　　Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled,

　　He was as happy as a little child.

　　From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more,

　　Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first

　　Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore

　　Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst

　　Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst;

　　That his short interest in her was a light

　　Flared up an instant only in the night.

　　`Idomeneo' was the opera's name,

　　A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate.

　　Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came

　　Home for his tea, and it was very late,

　　Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state

　　Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin

　　Is thin with pulling, and all dented in.

　　He practised every morning and her heart

　　Followed his bow. But often she would sit,

　　While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart,

　　Absently fingering and touching it,

　　The locket, which now seemed to her a bit

　　Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears,

　　And through the notes he played, her dreading ears

　　Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed;

　　Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take

　　Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged

　　Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take

　　Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake,

　　Along the street where Heinrich had his shop.

　　What harm to pass it since she should not stop!

　　It matters nothing how one day she met

　　Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by.

　　Nor how the following week he stood to let

　　Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly.

　　How once he took her basket, and once he

　　Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck

　　Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck

　　How many times their business took them each

　　Right to the other. Then at last he spoke,

　　But she would only nod, he got no speech

　　From her. Next time he treated it in joke,

　　And that so lightly that her vow she broke

　　And answered. So they drifted into seeing

　　Each other as before. There was no fleeing.

　　Christmas was over and the Carnival

　　Was very near, and tripping from each tongue

　　Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall

　　Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung,

　　What singers hired. Pictures of the young

　　"Maestro" were for sale. The town was mad.

　　Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad.

　　Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will

　　And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore

　　And him. Sometimes she wished to kill

　　Herself to solve her problem. For a score

　　Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore

　　Her moods with patience, and so surely urged

　　Himself upon her, she was slowly merged

　　Into his way of thinking, and to fly

　　With him seemed easy. But next morning would

　　The Stradivarius undo her mood.

　　Then she would realize that she must cleave

　　Always to Theodore. And she would try

　　To convince Heinrich she should never leave,

　　And afterwards she would go home and grieve.

　　All thought in Munich centered on the part

　　Of January when there would be given

　　`Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart.

　　The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even

　　Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven

　　Behind the highest gallery, were sold.

　　The inches of the theatre went for gold.

　　Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin

　　With work, he hardly printed black behind

　　The candle. He and his old violin

　　Made up one person. He was not unkind,

　　But dazed outside his playing, and the rind,

　　The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded

　　A part of him which he had quite discarded.

　　It woke in the silence of frost-bright

　　nights,

　　In little lights,

　　Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering,

　　Here -- there --

　　Spurting, sputtering,

　　Fading and lighting,

　　Together, asunder --

　　Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder,

　　And the faint grey patch of the window shone

　　Upon her sitting there, alone.

　　For Theodore slept.

　　The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day,

　　'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant

　　Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play

　　His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent

　　Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went

　　Into the kitchen, with a weary word

　　Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard.

　　Lotta heard more than his spoken

　　word.

　　She heard the vibrating of strings and wood.

　　She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds,

　　When the sound began,

　　Long as the span

　　Of a white road snaking about a hill.

　　The orchards are filled

　　With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise.

　　Hawthorn buds are cracking,

　　And in the distance a shepherd is clacking

　　His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep.

　　The notes are asleep,

　　Lying adrift on the air

　　In level lines

　　Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines,

　　Strung and threaded,

　　All imbedded

　　In the blue-green of the hazy pines.

　　Lines -- long, straight lines!

　　And stems,

　　Long, straight stems

　　Pushing up

　　To the cup of blue, blue sky.

　　Stems growing misty

　　With the many of them,

　　Red-green mist

　　Of the trees,

　　And these

　　Wood-flavoured notes.

　　The back is maple and the belly is pine.

　　The rich notes twine

　　As though weaving in and out of leaves,

　　Broad leaves

　　Flapping slowly like elephants' ears,

　　Waving and falling.

　　Another sound peers

　　Through little pine fingers,

　　And lingers, peeping.

　　Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something

　　is cheeping.

　　There is a twittering up in the branches,

　　A chirp and a lilt,

　　And crimson atilt on a swaying twig.

　　Wings! Wings!

　　And a little ruffled-out throat which sings.

　　The forest bends, tumultuous

　　With song.

　　The woodpecker knocks,

　　And the song-sparrow trills,

　　Every fir, and cedar, and yew

　　Has a nest or a bird,

　　It is quite absurd

　　To hear them cutting across each other:

　　Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once,

　　And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother

　　A wood-pigeon perched on a birch,

　　"Roo -- coo -- oo -- oo --"

　　"Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's

　　one for you!"

　　A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill!

　　And the great trees toss

　　And leaves blow down,

　　You can almost hear them splash on the ground.

　　The whistle again:

　　It is double and loud!

　　The leaves are splashing,

　　And water is dashing

　　Over those creepers, for they are shrouds;

　　And men are running up them to furl the sails,

　　For there is a capful of wind to-day,

　　And we are already well under way.

　　The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze.

　　"Theodore, please.

　　Oh, Dear, how you tease!"

　　And the boatswain's whistle sounds again,

　　And the men pull on the sheets:

　　"My name is Hanging Johnny,

　　Away-i-oh;

　　They call me Hanging Johnny,

　　So hang,

　　boys, hang."

　　The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts;

　　They are swinging over

　　Her and her lover.

　　Almost swooning

　　Under the ballooning canvas,

　　She lies

　　Looking up in his eyes

　　As he bends farther over.

　　Theodore, still her lover!

　　The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands,

　　She leant against the table for support,

　　Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands

　　Burning upon his music. He stopped short.

　　Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands

　　Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart,

　　Her fingers touched the locket with a start.

　　Herr Altgelt put his violin away

　　Listlessly. "Lotta, I must have some rest.

　　The strain will be a hideous one to-day.

　　Don't speak to me at all. It will be best

　　If I am quiet till I go." And lest

　　She disobey, he left her. On the stairs

　　She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers!

　　He could not hear, he was not there, for she

　　Was married to a mummy, a machine.

　　Her hand closed on the locket bitterly.

　　Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen

　　Case of his violin. She saw the clean

　　Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge

　　Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge.

　　A heavy cart went by, a distant bell

　　Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate.

　　She was alone. Her throat began to swell

　　With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait?

　　The violin she had begun to hate

　　Lay in its case before her. Here she flung

　　The cover open. With the fiddle swung

　　Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking

　　Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused

　　The little door in it came open, flicking

　　A wooden cuckoo out: "Cuckoo!" It caused

　　The forest dream to come again. "Cuckoo!"

　　Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two.

　　"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" the clock kept striking

　　on;

　　But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone.