ARTIST

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXIX, Issue 13239, 15 January 1941, Page 3

ARTIST

THE EVENING STORY’

Showed Him What True Artistry Was

BY FRANK BENNETT. The great Joseph Carl could see his audience through the small gap in the back drops. The concert hall was jammed. The programs rustled like leaves in an autumn breeze and fluttered like falling snow under the white lights. The man’s eyes swept across the stage to the grand piano, and a fierce rage Avelled up in him. To-night how he hated that thing of wood and steel and ivory! The lights dimmed above the fluttering programs, the great concert hall grew dark except for the circle of light that surrounded the piano. A hush of expectancy settled over the audience. Thousands of eyes were glued on the wings. Joseph raced, the palms of his hands were wet, his throat burned. As usual he was afraid to walk across that vacant space between the entrance and the

had hoped to overcome this fear, but now he knew he never would. It was a part of him, as much a pait of him as his eyes and hands.

“They’re waiting, Mr Carl,” Frederick, whispered, pushing him gently toward the stage. Good old Frederick, he did everything. He saw that Carl wore the correct clothes, made the trains, and went on the stage at the proper time. He was valet, manager, protector, all in one.

The pianist stepped from behind the drops. A roar of applause came up from the darkness of the vast room. He stepped forward, wondering fearfully if his legs would carry him a- dozen steps. An appalling emptiness gripped the pit of his stomach. Why did he let himself be tortured like this? Why had he worked years and years to gain this fame? Why He suddenly realized that he was up front and centre of the stage. Automatically he smiled and bowed / to the centre, to the right, to he left. The applause increased. He turned toward the piano. The white keys reminded him of a manytoothed snarling dragon. He was sure as he stumbled toward the instrument that he wouldn’t be able to play a note. His mind was blank. Some way he reached the bench and sat down. A quietness began to settle over the room. Carl spread his fingers above the keys—waited. The room became' deathly still. The artist’s head began to clear. There was a small white house in a little village near the mountains — a white house with a sloping treefilled lawn in front of a stream tumbling over brown boulders at the back. This was his home. He could see it plainly as he sat there at the piano. Edith and Jimmy were there, thinking of-him, proud of his great skill. \ Edith had hair, that fluffed about her oval face like a golden mist and eyes that were the blue of mountain skies. Before Jimmy came she travelled with him on his concert tours. But Jimmy had stopped that three years before —Jimmy with his ifiother’s blue eyes and his dad’s wavy brown hair. Carl’s fingers touched the keys.

He Thought He Hated Being an Artist Until Love

! piano. There was a time when be The audience was forgotten, and he played for a woman and a tiny chap who lived in a white house. The music swelled and rippled about the great room. The people listened and marvelled. The music died away. The vision of the boy and the woman was rudely shattered by a burst of applause, and the dull rage again flared in Joseph Carl’s heart. For eight Aveeks he had been playing for throngs of people. For as long he had been away from the ones he lived. For lavo more Aveeks he must continue playing for those he neither kneAV nor cared for.

The applause was dying hoav. He must play, play, play. At last the program ended. The audience demanded more. Wearily Carl played again and again. Peo-

ple stood and cheered. Fools, every one of them! How he hated them to-night.

At last they let him go, and old Frederick hurried him into a dressing room.

“You’ve got to quit for tonight,” he said. “You’re tired.”

Heaps of flowers were banked about the room. The odour was a little sickening. Everything was sickening—the publicity, the concert halls, the people who came to hear and applaud. Joseph Carl stood up. “I’m going home, Frederick,” he said tensely. “Home where I can rest —where I won’t have to play. Pack my things. Call the airport. Arrange——” “But your tour —two weeks more ft “Cancel everything. I’m going home. I’m through with this piano playing. I’ll never touch one again! Never, I tell you!” There was a plane at midnight. Hours of roaring through darkness. Daybreak. - Mountains! A small white house with a sloping lawn and a stream over brown boulders. A ■woman with a smile of welcome and soft golden hair, and a boy with laughing blue eyes. Joseph Carl lay on the cool grass in his lawn. A breeze stirred the pines gently. A few white lazy clouds slid across the deep sky. A small boy, barefooted, laughing, splashed in the shallow stream. From the house came the smell of fresh bread. A great contentment came over the man. He stood up. Edith, Jimmy, the rocks and trees, and the white house must know about his happiness. He ran into the house, opened the piano, and began to tell how he felt in the only way he knew'—by playing. For after all, Joseph Carl w r as an artist.