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.