A GENIUS RETURNS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 124, 27 May 1936, Page 23

A GENIUS RETURNS.

(By W. Y. NOBLE.)

(SHORT STORY.)

HENRY HAVILARD stood in a shaded clearing of the woods overlooking Konigswinter and the winding Rhine. Little white steamers puffed leisurely down to Cologne or up to Coblenz. A wasp settled on the violin under his arm, then explored the strings, _ A leisurely wasp—like the steamers, like the friendly Rhinelanders who tended jtlieir vines in the heat of the day ancl drank beer in the riverside cafes at night. "I'll go home now," said 'Henry, and it was the third time he'd said it within a minute. He said it as if trying to convince himself that he was right to make the decision. And by "home" lis meant England. By "home" he meant a northern industrial city where there were no was pi and no riverside cafes, and no sun on hillside vines. But it was the city of his birth where he had always promised himself he would make his debut as a violin virtuoso. Virtuoso was a fine word, finer than he deserved; but all his youth had been spent in perfecting his mastery over tlie violin, in translating the thoughts and emotions of the great composers into music which penetrated the soul. "I will take sunlight in my vit>lin. and the song of liinfis, and the breat!) of hope to that drab city." 1 These were not actually his word?., but these were his thoughts. For Hen' - y Havilard was a wholly sincere musician. » * » • As he raised the violin to his chin the wasp buzzed round. The boy soared, lingered lovingly on the strings, drew out a melody that had no name, then painted in the still air the graceful lines of a Brahms' sonata.

There was no one to hear, no one but the wasp and tall trees and a squirrel or two. That was how Henry liked it. Nobody to hear. For ten years now he had been living the life of a lone artist, giving lessons now and then to little fat German children in Wiesbaden and Mainz, but always seeking the solitude of the hills and the woods, where he could live his musical life undisturbed by civilisation. For ten years he had been perfecting his art, resolved to satisfy his own high standards before conveying his musical message to the world-weary public. For Henry Havilard music must be lived. It must not be merely a mastery over an instrument. It must be felt. The great composers—Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart —had a message for ordinary people. It was the duty of a violinist, a pianist, or any kind of instrumentalist, to make that message clear. He hail cut himself off from the world, sought solitude in the Rhineside woods, to find the rhythm of life. "But now I must go," he thought. And go he did, not merely down the 1 hill to his lodgings in Konigswinter, but I to England by way of Cologne and | Brussels. I He carried only a suit-case and his violin box. In his pockcts sheaves of music, a tooth brush, and one or two German keepsakes were stuffed, and in his heart was a quiet confidence. He had made no definite plans. Fate, he felt, would provide. The first thing Fate provided was Eddie Cleaver, a newspaperman, whom Henrv had knowi. at school. "Where in blazes have you been?" asked Eddie. "In the woods with my violin." "That's a good story—Wiolinist play? to birds and squirrels.' Fine piece of publicity. But where have you really , ' been?" ♦ • • • So Henry told his story, explained feelings, his desires to bring inspired music to the people of his native city, to play from the roof tops, from a public square, anywhere. "And then what?" . "I have no plans beyond that." "How much money?" "Money?" Henry had not thought of money. "Very, little." Eddie wondered whether to take this eager-eyed, long-haired young man seriously. At school Henry Havilard had been a queer youngster, eerie at times. Eddie well remembered how he had been hailed as an infant prodigy. He had played at private receptions, one or two managers had tried to exploit hira, V then suddenly he had vanished —he and his violin. "Well, now you're back we must do something for you." Eddie.smiled bigbrotherly. "My music will do all I want for me." "Rats. You want putting over. Just leave it to me. I'll sleep on it. then I'll meet you in the Tudor Cafe tomorrow. Go into practice, old fellow, we're going to make a genius of you." That night, in a top room of his mother's house, Henry played to soothe his nerves, played a piece of Ysaye and tried to lose himself in the beauty of it. His native city had disturbed him, he could not tell exactly why; except, perhaps, that the streets seemed uglier than ever, and the people had cold faces.

The next day he arrived late at the Tudor Cafe. Eddie was already there. bi" and smiling and self-confident. Beside him was a girl, darlc-haired, with blue eyes. "I brought Ann along. Hope you don't mind. Said she'd like to see you," said Eddie. "Delighted." But Henry felt that the way Eddie said "she'd like to see you," sounded as if he meant "she'd like to see this crazy fellow I've been telling her about." Ann looked straight into his eyes, and Henry lowered his. He was unacquainted with the opposite sex. He had sacrificed everything to his music, even love. "Now this is my plan." Eddi". launched straight into it. "I've got Peter Rubinstein to back you. We're going to hire the biggest hall in the place, just as if you were Kreisler. That's a story in itself. "Then I'm going to write you up, all you've been doing—the woods, the squirrels, the birds, solitude—all that stuff. How private salons have raved about you. . That'll draw crowds out of curiosity. Then you'll give it to 'em. Straight from the shoulder. Put music into their cringing souls." "But you haven't even heard mo play." Henry protested. "Don't need to. I can see you're good." Henry's eyes blazed. He was about to tell Eddie exactly what he thought of liis vulgar scheming. Then he met Ann's eyes. There was sunshine in them, warm and friendly sunshine. And sympathy. How beautiful and tranquil her fare was. "I'm not going to do it," he exclaimed. "But you can't let me down now, mm • ■ gSBSBSSSSSSSa

okl fellow. Bubinstein and I have already booked the hall. Come, now; don't be modest." If Ann had taken his side then, even by uttering one word against Eddie, he would have nipped the scheme in the bud. But she seemed to leave it with him, not quite knowing what his feelings really were. ITe shrugged his shoulders. He had the artist's way of taking the line oi least resistance. Perhaps Fate had planned it that way. "Good man," said Eddie. Ann said she must get along now, and smiling farewell to them both, walked out of the cafe. » • • • The next 10 days Henry spent acclimatising himself to his surroundings practising on his violin, and attemptina to dodge reporters.-. He dared not look at a newspaper, but several times wher passing a bookstall or a newsboy ir the street, he had seen his photograph and headlines such as "Mystery Violin ist Conies to Town," or "Local Violinist Hailed as Genius." Eddie had done his work well, accord ing to his lights. Henry shudderei Was this what he had come home for' Then came the night of the recital Henry felt all alone. People and things familiar to him in childhood, nou seemed as far away as the woods abort Konigswinter and the Siebengebirge. He arrived at the concert hall early but already there were queues at tilt doors. He was puzzled. "Filled the hall for you," said Eddi; jubilantly in the room beneath the plat form. "Not a seat left. You'll make a packet." Henry did not answer. He felt sick "You don't seem very grateful." "I'm thinking about my music." Wild clapping greeted him as he weal on to the platform, followed by his pianist and a woman to turn over thi pages. He bowed ever so slightly. H( would have preferred a silence. He smelled the smoke of cheap cigar-? , and as if through a haze he saw mer and. women lounging negligently. This was not the atmosphere for an artist, e virtuoso. But when he began to play he saw neither concert hall nor audience. H< was lost in the magic of the music. 11 was a Bach sonata. When the last note died lingeringh away the audience almost rose to theii feet. They cheered and clapped. Then was no mistaking tfyeir warmth. But somehow he was uneasy. Theii clapping was the clapping of a gallerj crowd at a cheap theatre, of childrer , at a circus. There was nothing eritica about it; they just lapped it up. Then came tragedy. He paused foi a fraction of a minute after a particii larly enthralling movement in hi? second piece. The audience shoui.i have been spellbound, too carried awaj ,to breathe; but not they. The\ clapped from every corner of the hal and their clapping drowned the begin , ning of the second movement. Either he or they were at fault, hf : told himself vaguely. At the end o! i the piece, which he blundered througl ! in sheer desperation, they shouted anf : stamped. Stamped! He could hav< , spat at them. He marched off the platform, the!' ■ applause ringing through his head. Hi • gripped his violin.

"Bravo!" yelled Eddie. "What did I tell you? "That's what a bit of publicity does. Has 'em crawling at your feet. Tell the public they're going to hear a genius—and see one —and they'll make you a genius all right." Henry swung round. "So you weren't sure I could play, really?" His voice was very quiet. His face was white. '-Sure I was. You can fiddle all right." # • » • Henry raised his violin, and brought it crashing on to Eddie's defenceless head. He brushed past the attendants and rushed out into the street. Outside in the night air he paused to take his bearings, and a hand touched his arm. "Nothing's as bad as it seems at first." It was Ann, with his coat over her arm. He smiled down at her, took his coat, but did not speak. She walked besK.e him, and lie felt strangely comforted by her presence They were heading tor a railway station. , "But I thought you were Eddie » crirl," he said at last, as if they had 1 been talking about each other for a loner time. Their thoughts seemed co ha\Te been intimate. Perhaps there was such a thing as telepathy. ! "Not now," she said, and she put her 1 hand into his. . . Then thev looked up a tram in time to catch the first morning cross-Channel boat on the way to Konigswinter.