On Hallowe'en, I played at the "Gardens." It was a compliment, being invited to play the second time, and Herr Weisar was much pleased, and anxious for my success. I think he was satisfied, for everything went well. I even dared to play my own little song, "Die Liebe"; every one was quiet, and, far in the rear, a beautiful face watched me with such intense interest that I can fancy I see it still. My violin spoke in response to the slightest touch, and I made no false motion. My song was received with enthusiasm, and counted a success. Yet a dissatisfaction seized me, even in the playing. A spirit, a divine impulsion, was lacking in my playing which made it a failure to me. I remembered the words of Herr Weisar:
"You can never play greater than you are; experience and maturity are necessary for development of soul; and soul, depth of character, is the life of true music."
Is it true, then, that I must wait years, perhaps, for power over these few stretched strings? I cannot wait; playing is my life; I would play on my heartstrings, rather than fail, rather than give no true life to my music.
Sometimes this fleeting, evasive power seems almost near me. As I play, self consciousness almost leaves me, and I live in the pulses of the vibrating strings. The music comes from my hand, or my heartbeats, and rises high into the air, like dream-music, creating columns of harmony, higher and sweeter, until it almost closes into the perfect arch of sound, - and yet it fails. The master touch is wanting.
As I rode home from the "Gardens" that night, I was more discouraged than ever before. I leaned to the side of the carriage, and looked out upon the brightly lighted street. I could see the merry-making going on in the pleasant homes as I passed, and could look into the faces of passers-by. I began to think how, on Hallowe'en, we used to roast chestnuts and tell fortunes, with our whole dear, wild family together. How happy it was, and how strange the witch stories they used to tell! They have a fascination for me yet, though it was long ago that I left that home, - and only James knows about those early days. The rich, intoxicating breath of the narcissus at my belt floated about me, like the clinging, passionate tenderness of my lover's voice. Was that his voice? and what are those dancing lights just beyond the window? What if that curious face which just passed were an imp's grinning face peering in at me, - and the driver, - if he were the uncanny rider of the broom-stick and we were shirling off towards that star, away, away, -
I started suddenly, as the carriage stopped before my door, vexed that I was so weary with my evening's work. It was not late; I would shake off my depression by writing to James, and go to bed early. I had neglected James lately, sending him only newspaper cuttings, when people had praised my work, - he is so foolishly proud of my playing. I wrote to him of my success, for I had many engagements and was earning money, of my plans for the winter, and of my own vague dissatisfaction with myself. I wrote of my song, "Die Liebe," how I had composed it for him, and would play it to him when we were together again. James seemed very near to me as I was writing; I longed so much to be with him, that I told him I would leave the city soon, and go to him. I had not seen him for a year, since he was sent away on scientific business, and now I was weary of the drifting and the loneliness. Ambition and enthusiasm for my music were swallowed up in a great love and yearning for home.
When I had finished the letter, the old habit led me to my loft, where I had practiced so many hours. Morning, noon, and midnight had often found me in this little sixth-story, closely walled room, with only my violin for companion. I forgot my purpose to retire early, and began the dear old scales, that are to music as hands and feet. I went on through one exercise after another, until the clocks tolled midnight, but I could not stop. The witchery of the hour was upon me, and I played as if all the spirits, good and evil, were urging me on to find the magic melody.
"Play, play, - you may once gain the master touch you long for. Do not think of Herr Weisar's approbation; give that up, if need be, but play the way your own soul tells you." The undercurrent of thought was clear and impressive under the flow of music. I turned to the last symphony, in which I had played first violin. The strings of the dear old instrument quivered and throbbed under the passionate strains, and still the undercurrent of thought went on. "Play, play, - do not think of pleasing the audience. Renounce all idea of fame, only play with all your power," and I went on, until the last strains of the symphony merged into a softer, even sweeter improvisation. I could not tear the bow from the strings, and by and by the notes of my little love song came to me, and thoughts sweeter than bird song of my one true lover; and again the undercurrent of thought flowed on, or was it a demon speaking to my soul?
"Play, play, - do not think of your lover, or his devotion to you. Renounce it all. Give him up; let him live how and where he will; only play as if these were your heart-strings, and each note a breath, or a sigh, - and you shall gain the master touch." In my heart I assented to the voicce; I played on and on, until the morning broke, conscious that the master touch was mine at last. I had conquered, I had achieved. Again and again I played "Die Liebe," until it was like a human cry in pathos; until my own heart cried through it. As the last notes died away, and the dawn deepened into daylight, I sank upon the couch, overcome with weariness, and slept a long, dreamless sleep.
The next week, as I was growing anxious for news from James, I received a brief note.
"Died, on the evening of October 31, James West, after a brief illness, of the southern fever."