“Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught;
It is everywhere in the world―loud, soft, and all is said.
Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought,
And, there! ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head.”
THE poverty of Gerard’s room was in striking contrast with the splendor of his person. A “grabat” or pallet bed, a straw chair or two, a table, a harpsichord, and a large chest containing his wardrobe, formed its only furniture. Many a young Parisian, as gaily dressed as Gerard, and wearing two “montres à répétition” instead of one, was no better lodged; and knew as well as he, how to make a single meal, in a fashionable restaurant, suffice for the needs of four-and-twenty hours. In one respect alone Gerard had the advantage over others. His wardrobe included an ample supply of the purest and whitest linen; for he came from the mountains of Languedoc, and the natives of that province were said to rival the English in their love of clean linen and fresh water.
He took off his torn and blood-stained coat, and with many a muttered “Peste!” and “Sacre!” flung it on his pallet. It was nearly ruined, and the costly ruffles attached to his shirt were sorely damaged. The loss was heavy: these were really his most valuable possessions. “But, mille tonnerres!” he said to himself, “was I to stand by and see a child trampled to death for fear of spoiling my coat and ruffles? That would be too much to expect, even from a philosopher. How can the damage be repaired? Madame Bairdon will perhaps mend the lace, or have it mended, for me. Lace mending is one of the fine arts in these days.” Then, as a picture rose before him of a fair girl with golden hair and the features of Griselle, bending over the injured lace, he stood gazing at the delicate fabric, as if its cunningly devised knots and twisted threads had acquired a mystic charm. “As good as new! Nay, better a thousand times―if mended thus,” he thought. “But how am I to wait upon M. le Comte de Caylus, who has had the goodness to command me for next Monday, in such a coat as this? He would take me for a murderer, instead of a musician.”
Dreamily unlocking his chest, he drew from its most secret place an étui of perfumed morocco, with a golden hinge and clasp. Then, spreading its contents before him, he counted them carefully several times. Nine bright louis d’or were there; but no sleight of hand or trick of brain could make them ten. How miserably insufficient to provide food and clothing, until his art should become something more than a passion and a joy to him! And, whatever else was foregone, his lodging must be paid for. No debt to the Bairdons, especially after today’s adventure!
With a faint hope that a coin might remain in the étui, he searched it carefully, but without success. Yet not long ago it had contained two goodly “rolls of a hundred louis,” which had then appeared to the young adventurer an inexhaustible mine of wealth. Gerard’s thoughts went back to the day upon which that present reached him, bringing with it no joy, but keen regret and disappointment. For that day destroyed his hopes of embracing a friend who had been to him as a father. Instead of the warm grasp of his patron’s hand, and the words of cheer and counsel he expected, he found, at the appointed trysting place, gold to supply his necessities, recommendations to persons of influence in Paris, and a letter, vague though affectionate, announcing an absence of uncertain length.
Eight or ten years ago, Gerard had been a very unwilling pupil at a Jesuit school in Languedoc. An amiable, accomplished young nobleman, with a taste for practical benevolence and a genuine love for the fine arts, had visited the college, and, attracted by the boy’s genius, had taken him under his protection, sent him to the musical academy at Rome, and then supplied him with the means of making the tour of the great continental cities. Gerard profited so largely by these advantages, that his gratified patron promised to bring him to Paris, and to watch over his début in the musical circles of the capital with the care of a father. He returned to France in the highest spirits, but only to hear of the sudden departure of M. le Marquis de Chantal, and to receive the letter and the present that had been left for him. That letter, a hundred times re-read, told that the writer was about to seek adventure, freedom―perhaps fame―in the wilds of French Canada. The English, the red men, and stern inhospitable nature, were foes that would keep a man too busy to brood over the mysteries of his own being. “Adieu, my dear child,” so the letter concluded. “Be true, be merciful, be pure, and all will go well with thee. If we ever meet again, I may have more to tell thee.”
A year passed away, and then Gerard heard of his patron’s death, in a skirmish with the Indians. Chantal died alone, and without a will. His name and property passed to distant relatives, who were not friends, and from whom his protégé had nothing to hope. Gerard was thus thrown entirely upon his own resources.
“Be pure, be merciful, be true.” Almost daily did he repeat these words to himself. They were his sole code of morality, his sole creed also. He appreciated and delighted in color, though he had never seen the sun; he believed in truth, in mercy, in purity, though he did not believe in God. Yet in believing so much he was scarcely the child of his generation. The age selected for special admiration one of these three grand prismatic colors (of which the cardinal seven are the combination and development), almost wholly ignoring the others. The reign of violence and cruelty was passing away. Philosophers proclaimed a crusade against the wheel and the rack. Poets chanted the praises of mercy and humanity with voices that won something of the true poetic charm only when this theme inspired them. But truth? Which of the philosophers would not, like Helvetius, have made an explicit retractation of his favorite theories to escape censure or persecution? Which of the poets would not, like Voltaire, have gone to mass and confession and received the sacrament, if honor and advancement were to be gained thereby? And purity? The moral tone of that brilliant society was inconceivably low. The philosophers of Paris were not much better than the courtiers of Versailles. With a few honorable exceptions, cardinals, prelates, abbés, nobles of the old régime, ladies of fashion, disciples of Voltaire, must be involved in the same condemnation.
Hitherto Gerard had been proud of his creed, had worn it with satisfaction, as he wore his costly lace and velvet. But tonight this spiritual raiment seemed thin and scanty; it could not exclude a certain chill that pierced his heart. He was alone, and lonely. From his attic window he looked down upon the streets and squares of the great city far beneath. He heard the distant hum of her many voices―that confused murmur of human life which seems so full of glad or of mournful meaning, according to that which “lies already in the hearer’s ear.” There was the arena he must enter alone, to contend for fame, for fortune, for all that makes life precious―for life itself.
Should he succeed―well. Should he fail? There was none to care down yonder. There was none to care above―beyond those fair Paint sunset clouds. But he dared not pursue these thoughts, lest they should lead him to a place he dreaded― “a land of darkness as darkness itself, and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness.” So he turned for consolation, as usual, to his beloved harpsichord. A wild, sweet melody came at his call, like a spirit at the voice of the enchanter. Presently he paused, wondering, as he had often done before, whether the fire that burned within him was the heavenly light of genius, or only the earthborn glare of passion. He reproached himself for time wasted and energy misspent, and vowed to begin, that very hour, the composition of a piece that should make his reputation. Wild, plaintive, fanciful it should be―full of fantastic lightness, like the dance of fairies by moonlight. He would call it “Torn Lace.” And it should end with a glorious shower of melody, falling over all that had gone before in a flood of golden light, like a maiden’s streaming hair.
He tried again, and yet again. In vain―the mysterious power that creates, in the soul of artist or poet, does not obey the will. Dreaming that he was composing, as the sluggard dreams he has risen and begun his day’s work, he played over old, half-forgotten airs. At last he glided into a sweet and simple mountain melody unthought of for long years. With the music came fragments of the words, which were not without a music of their own:
“C’est á Dieu mon Pare
Que j’éléve mon cceur;
En Lui mon ame espére
D’une constante ardeur.”
This favorite of his childhood fascinated him, and he lingered over it. While he did so, the bare, dark attic changed to a quaint, home-like room, filled with the glow of blazing chestnut logs. Rough wooden shutters were carefully closed, for there was snow outside. He heard the whirr of a spinning wheel, and saw a gray-haired woman with a sorrowful countenance bending over it; and beside her a tall slight figure, a pure pale face―his mother’s. There was also a fair young sister, with soft brown eyes, and hair darker than Mademoiselle Griselle’s. Was there a father? He could not tell; he had a sense of his presence, but no distinct remembrance of his form or features. And as he tried to grasp and retain the vision, it faded utterly; leaving him only that vague delight which is the peculiar heritage of the poet and the artist, and which repays him for many a bitter hour of conflict, failure, and disappointment.