FITFUL FANCIES

Southland Times, Issue 21773, 30 July 1932, Page 19

FITFUL FANCIES

The Turning Point

By Cousin Hazel M. Boyd (19).

Along the dark country road, a lone bedraggled figure with his pack shuffled through the fast falling snow. His weariness was evident tor his shoulders sagged, and gradually his steps grew slower. On his almost lifeless hands he would breathe with little or no success

Once a wealthy, talented fellow, and now he shouldered a pack and nearer death and starvation than ever he Could have dreamed about. Kent had passed out of the musical world, when the critics were keyed up to concert pitch. His thrilling recitals set everyone agog. His popularity was immense, and being a generous fellow he gradually got mixed up with all classes of people. The two years of unrivalled success that caught him for the public’s idol was erammed full of the most wonderful moments of his life. He did not merely play his violin, he made it speak. Those who heard him sat spellbound as he drew them into enchanted worlds where the temple bells chimed, and serenading birds thrilled them. They heard the soft thud . . . thud . . . thud of the padded feet that pattered along in the wedding procession, and the beggar’s cry of back-sheesh. Under the magic spell he wove with his music, that was so plaint and indefinite, that imaginative minds could weave their own experiences around, and tinder this magnetic power he possessed, they became mute.

It was then that he Would play descriptive pieces with a passionate desire to stir the audience. Some slumbering thought would awaken in him, and his whole being would be lost in his world of dreamy reveries. Then, as the last rung in the ladder was reached, he fell. High hopes crashed to the ground, his reputation no longer good, was flung to the pathway to be trodden on and jeered at by one-time idolaters. Sneering faces taunted him day and night, women who had hitherto worshipped him shrugged disdainfully or curled their roughed lips as they passed him by. Through gambling and drink, his life was wasted. Why, in a drunken debauch, he had sold his violin to pay gambling debts! Now he was penniless—homeless—friendless, starved filthy and heartsore. Was this past life just a hideous nightmare? In his stupid state of exhaustion he somehow saw a light among an avenue of trees, and staggering weakly, sometimes stumbling, he made his way towards it. The glare that shed its ray on the snow-covered drive overpowered him, and dizzily he sunk into oblivion .... Purvis, the faithful old servant that had served the McCormick family for many years, possessed an extremely exciteable manner. At times his tongue was inclined to get sadly twisted and his humour, wholly unnoticed by himself, caused much merriment. When he opened the door and saw a huddled figure lying on the pathway, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Gingerly he stepped outside and stooped over the man. “Glory be?” he gasped, "the poor fellow must have been here for a long time by the look of him.”

When Kent opened his eyes, he was lying on a comfortable couch in a kitchen. His bewildered gaze was met by a pair of equally inquisitive eyes belonging to Purvis. “Where-a-am I?” he blinked. “You’re all right Mister, you’re in a house,” Purvis informed him. Kent looked about him. “Looks mighty like a bloomin’ manshin,” he mumbled. .“For I ain’t seen a ’ouse like this ’ere one for a mighty long age. Ya must be rich mista?” he rattled on. . . Purvis mopped his head with his large handkerchief, and drawing himself up, answered with dignity. ‘Tve been in this home for twenty-five years sir, and it is no more nearer being mine than it was when I started here.” He buttoned his coat closer. “No sir, Tve been a servant all my life. Master John has been here for five years and I served his people before him. Fine people too.” His mind was occupied with past days, he seemed to have forgotten his listener. “May-be you’d get fired if they kewed I was ’ere,” Kent asked. Purvis blinked and then recovered himself. "Fired? Ha ha ha,” he roared till his fat cheeks grew rosy. "No fear,” he grinned. “I’m boss of this part. Come on,” he urged, “get closer to the fire while I get cook to make you a good hot bowl of something appetising. She won’t be long.” “I haint set close to a fire like this right on two years, Mista,” his lip quivered. “You’re mighty good ter fella, Mista—ain’t yer kinda scared of ’avin a fella like me, wot don’t knows you?—ain’t yer kinda scared I might pinch some of them there things?” pointing to the tidy shelves that contained preserves. Purvis glanced at the slumped figure that stared so dejectedly at him. His steady look did not waver. Purvis trusted him. "No, I’m not cared of you being a thief. You might feel tempted because you’re hungry, but if you knew Master John—well you wouldn’t C> it, that’s all sir. Cook with a steaming bowl of bread and milk. Kent’s eyes hungrily followed her every movement.

Watched her set a plate of hot scones and honey on the table—saw the coffee pot being filled—then she placed the chair for him and left the room.

Purvis did not need to say “Lunch is served, sir.” Kent knew it was, and his starved being soon was sufficed. Purvis watched him with rude astonishment. “Lor Mista! I ain’t set eyes on such a fine feed for a mighty long time, he ogled. “It doesn’t look like it, Sir—er, I mean er—have you not sir?” he stammered. Kent nodded. Suddenly he stopped with his knife poised in midair. "Sh! what’s that?”

“The music,? Is that What you mean?”

“Yes! Is it real? It ain’t a gramerphone?” his eyes growing wide. “No sir, that is Master John’s orchestra,” Purvis answered proudly. Kent grew silent for a time. Fifteen minutes passed, then Kent Mista, d’ya think your boss ’ud mind if I could go ’n listen for a bit. I ain’t ’erd music for a mighty long time Mista,” he said plaintively. “I’ll ask Master John.” He bowed and left him. Kent grew thoughtful again “And you say he is quite honest, Purvis?” McCormick asked smilingly. “Yes, Master John. He looks a pool sick sort of fellow.” “Did you give him something to eat?” “Yes, Master John.” "Well, I don’t suppose he could do any harm in here. It might cheer him up a bit, eh? Bring him in Purvis.” “Very well, Sir.” When John looked up from the music he held in hL hand, he saw the figure in the doorway. The faces that scrutinized Kent was about as much as he could bear. His head fell. John glanced at him closer, and seeing the scuffed-out boots and raggy trouser legs—tattered coat that told its own tale—saw the straggly grey hair that hung over his ears, and the pitiful white face—his heart went out to him. He thought of his own grandeur and wealth. “Come right in Sir,” he smiled and drew the armchair closer to the blazing logs in the open fireplace. “Don’t ask me Mista, I ain’t good ’nuff. I didn’t orter asked him”—pointing to Purvis, “only that there music made me do it. I can’t come in there Mista! W’y look at me!” his voice quivered. “I’d mess up them there velvety rugs. I’ll be goin Mista—you’ve been mighty good to me.” He turned and would have gone had John not detained him “Don’t you worry about the old carpets,” he said lightly. “Come and get a warm and some music. Anyway it is snowing like mischief.” Kent moved forward slowly, treading with almost painful care on the carpets. He felt every eye turned on him, and felt so miserable that he could have run for his life. From the depths of his chair he listened to them playing. McCormick, he noticed, had not been playing. His violin lay on the table alongside the bow.

Kent’s face twitched. He was staring into the embers. What was in his mind, no one would ever learn,, but two tears fell down his dirt-smirked cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of his hand. Half an hour slipped by. His eyes fell on the violin again and caused him to shudder. ‘What might have been,’ it seemed to throb in his ears.'. . . The party had ceased playing. John sat on the table filling his pipe. Then a voice from the armchair aroused them. “Say, Mista, d’ya think I could play that there fiddle?” McCormick smiled. “Well, you might after a lot of practice. But a violin can’t be learnt in ten minutes, you know!” “How about playing for us John? You haven’t touched your violin tonight,” Dolores Vane coaxed. “Not just yet Doi,” he smiled as he picked up his instrument. “I’ve been watchin him playing. Kent pointed to Ron Harper. “It looks easy Mista!” Valerie Florence laughed. Oh it s not so easy as it looks. Mr McCormick is very talented, you know,” she appraised John. “Could I have a look at it Mista?’’ he queried of Mr McCormick. Harper winked and nodded to John to let him have the fiddle. Kent ran his fingers over the beautiful markings on the instrument, then he took the bow from McCormick’s hand. A laugh went round the room when the old swagman lifted the violin to his chin and with surprising deftness drew the bow across the strings. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and in a hoarse cry of delight he stammered “My Strad! It’s my Strad! I’d ’ave knowed it anywhere.” A dreadful hush hung over the room. Then Walsh found his voice and said excitedly to McCormick: “Take it from him, John. He’s mad!” “I’m not mad,” he whimpered, hugging the instrument to him. “This is my Strad, I tell ya. I’ve played on this more than any of you fellas.” “How do you know its’ yours? Harper bullied. John stood stupefied. “I’ve proof it’s mine, and I know it as soon as I touched the strings,” Kent said excitedly, unconsciously g topping the bad grammar he had been using. “Where’s your proof?” Welsh deman-, ded. . “If you had lost something you ad valued and then saw it years after, you’d recognize it as yours.” Kent questioned him.

“That’s not the point,” Walsh evaded the question.

“Here sir,” John interrupted, "I’ve been watching you and somehow I’ve reason to believe you. What is your name, my good .fellow?”

“K-Kent, Sir.” “That your proper name?” “N-not—exactly—Sir.” “There, I told you he was an imposter John,” Harper jeered. John silenced him with a hand. „ “What is your real name, Sir?’ he repeated. “I c-called myself K-Kent when I went to the dogs, Sir, and I sold this, touching the violin gently, “to pay gambling debts. “And it’s a Strad. did you say?” “Yes Sir.” “How much did you sell it for?’ Kent hung his head. “I don’t know sir. You see I was drunk. No one knew it was worth much. I suppose I was too doped to knovz what I had done.” He coloured painfully. “How did you get it, Sir?” he asked eagerly. “I bought it for five pounds at a second-hand shop,” John murmured. “Hey, what name did he say, John? Walsh frowned.

"He hasn’t said yet, Frank,” McCormick answered, looking at the ragged figure. “Ra-Ramon de’ Broff,” the man answered quietly. “What! de' Broff, the fiddler?” a chorus of voices chimed. "Yes,” he muttered, “that’s me. “Say, you’re not getting at us? Harper asked dubiously. de’ Broff straightened his thin shoulders and fixed his blue eyes on Harper. “de’ Broff may have been a drunkard and gambler,” he said; he may have been the biggest brute that ever walked on two legs, but did he ever get at the public? Did he ever disappoint the crowds that turned out, night after night?” he demanded. Harper grew confused. I apologize, sir,” he murmured, shamefacedly. “Thank you,” he said, quietly. “Sir, I don’t expect you to feel anything else, but doubt,” he turned to

McCormick. "If I hadn’t asked to see this violin I would never have known it was the Strad. You asked for proof young man?” he asked Harper. Well, if you look inside you see my name written alongside with the date I was born.” He handed the fiddle to them. Eargerly they peered into the inside and there de’ Broff’s name was written.

They crowded around him. Someone handed him his instrument and begged him to play. “Well,” said John, turning to his friends, “there’s no doubt that this is de’ Broff, for he couldn’t have seen the name inside, before he said who he really was, could he?” "Hear! hear!” Welsh cheered. They no longer looked with disgust at the ragged figure; they were seeing him as he appeared on the stage. They pictured him in evening clothes, with his beloved fiddle under his arm. They pictured the sea of faces, and the cheers echoing through the hall ... t de’ Broff held the violin out at arms length to McCormick and said, brokenly. "Take it, sir. I hope it will bring you success. Thank you for the music ana your kindness. I’ll never forget, you. He turned to the door, “Good-night, sir!” They stared at the closed door. John, still stupefied, grasped the fiddle upside down. Welsh, and Harper looked at one another with amazement. Then Miss Florence said quickly: . “John! John! You’re not letting him go—like that, are you?” . “No! By thunder. Where’s Purvis? Purvis appeared instantly. “Yessir,” he bowed dutifully. The four of them ran out and saw the poor fellow battling along the drive. Snow pelted down on him. By the time they reached him, John had recovered his senses. Ramon de’ Broff felt himself lifted bodily and before he . could struggle or say a word, he was in the siting room again. _ “You’re not going out of this house without my consent,” John laughed. "Purvis, get some of my clothes out and see about a bath will you, like a good fellow?” “Right, Master John,” he beamed. After de’ Broff followed Purvis out of the room, McCormick was bombarded with questions. “Say, John, what are you going to do with him?” Welsh prompted. “Dash it, boys, you’re making me feel like an editor of a problem club, he laughed boyishly.

“Why don’t you put a sign on your car John—Found, the lost chord —or something like that!” Dolores giggled. “No,” John frowned. “I wouldn’t make fun of the chap; he’s had a bad enough spin.” “Well, he’s too valuable to let slip through our fingers, John,” Harper said solemnly. “That’s it, Ron. We can’t say heres your fiddle, you’d better move on, old chap,” Welsh said through a column of cigarette smoke. McCormick straightened his shoulders. “Listen boys!” he said, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve been thinking.” “Hurrah, have you really found your thinking-box?” Welsh slapped his leg. “Be quiet Frank! I’ve decided that de’ Broff is going to live with me and help to teach. I’ve about as many pupils as I can manage. Anyhow, he won t feel like going into public for a while — not till the news is well known. People will be all the eager to welcome him back if he feels like taking up where he left off.” He watched their faces closely. . , “Good old Jack,” Harper cried. “We'll guarantee your scheme will prove worth while, eh boys?” “Sure thing,” they cried in unison. “We’ll all help you, too!” Valerie volunteered. “You’re good sports,” John replied warmly. * *

The next few weeks were so happy that de’ Broff was almost afraid to speak, for fear that this haven of rest was another dream. Good food, plenty of long-needed rest, and an admirable host, who lavished upon him love and kindnesses in every direction. Soon his health improved, and he. was able to help McCormick with his pupils. What thrilling times they spent together. The news spread like wildfire. People gossiped about de’ Broff when they should have been attending to household duties. Newspaper men reprinted old photos, and compiled columns that stirred uj old memories. The jeering crowds of yore now cheered and laughed happily when they passed McCormick’s home, where they learnt he lived. , , Gradually de’ Broff became braver. He felt the tugging that gnawed at his heart, and knew it was impossible not to give in. Once, John saw him standing on the balcony, listening to the passing, crowd’s chatter. Suddenly they began to cheer, de’ Broff sighed and sank into the chair beside him. His head fell on his breast and his hands outOh God help me!” he cried. “I know I am weak, yet I want strength to stir these people up again.” In the solemn hush of that evening hour, his prayer was heard and answered. He rose, and began pacing to and fro. John quietly entered and laid his arm on Ramon’s. “You’re worried, old chap?” he asked. “Yes”—he paused; “Jack, Ive got to get back there somehow,” pointing to the city where the twinkling lights flickered. T “Well, I am going to help you, for: X can see you’re keen and I think the time is ready. People are standing on tip-toes to catch a glimpse of you. Why don’t you go out among them; it would help you.” . “No, I daren t. Anyway ! am. going to start practising real solid again and perhaps if you’ll help me well announce a recital, de Broff s voice thrilled excitably. . , “We’ll announce it all right but it’H be your name that will stand in. the black and white lettering,. not mine, John said as he patted his shoulder.

The days slipped by all too quickly. Ramon de’ Broff regained his nerve—the old winning smile grew more often —his blue eyes danced with a joyful light whenever he touched his fiddle. At last the great night arrived. The large theatre was packed to the doors. People talked incessantly. Suddenly, the curtain rolled back, and there stood the people’s idol; the one who had caused many a heart to throb with exctiement. His solemnity seemed to cut the crowd to the bone. A great hush fell over all. Then, as everyone watched him, he lifted the beloved Strad to his shoulder, and then drew the bow across the strings. He played that wonderful touching, “Home Sweet Home. What glorious strains of music he flooded the hearts with. Few remained dryeyed. Each one felt touched, as they realized the struggle he was fighting with himself— they knew it was the turning point for a bigger, and sure, successful career. His friends, to whom he owed his very life, he could never repay. He realized that John McCormick, who sat watching him somewhere in the audience, was taking his re-ap-pearance as his own mother would have, had she lived. It touched a tender chord of his heart to recall his mother and as a tribute to her undying memory he played her once favourite. Once again, the hearts that were beating with a glowing admiration for him, heard the temple bells tolling, and the songsters of the heavens, thrilled at the pattering feet that slowly , grew dimmer as they followed their princess from the rowdy market-place of the enchanted East. The re-echo of other days. *

We shall leave our hero, with his fame-paved pathway, scattered with love and confident that the turningpoint was Die gratia (by the grace of God), who gave him strength. i