A Voice of the Wilderness.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue XXV, 20 December 1902, Page 1542

A Voice of the Wilderness.

This is another story of the mountains, because, thougn the Grand Duchy of Saxenstein lies for the most part in the plains, it is from its mountainous south-eastern fringe that the best stories, like the best men, come. The born story-teller can weave a thousand and one tales, and more, from even the cleanest and most modern German towns, wide squares, beer gardens, taverns and all; but the air of the mountains is to him a fresh draught at the fount of inspiration. There is a space and a clearness in hill countries that sets the spirit free as on wings; it can soar into the dome of blue and lose itself in a wide sweep of contemplation. There are voices in the mountains that can only be heard when all else is silent; they only speak to him that hath ears to hear. The hum of cities is life, no doubt, but the living silence of the mountains is eternity.

To weave a story of air is easy; but it needs a special audience. And therefore we cannot stay all the while on the heights, but must descend among mon lest we speak to unhear ing ears and become a nuisance. But the best part is up in the mountains —just as the best part of the life of Irma, though she did not know it herself, was spent there, where God’s own sun smiled on her every morning as she went to milk the cows, and the pine-scented breeze bieathed into her lungs the strength and dearness that made and marred her.

In those open-air days, when she walked firmly on her bare feet over the crisping pine needles, and could look the whole world squarely in the face, she was just Irma the girl at the farm, an ordinary German madchen. with rosy cheeks and flaxen plaits of hair, beautiful in the eyes of nobody except perhaps in those of her betrothed, though even this is not a certainty. For though Irma was dowerless, she was a rare good but-ter-maker. and her voice had tlie most magical effect upon the most contumacious of cows, and the would-be Benedict in those parts of the world thinks more of a good hausfrau than of a beauty. But Irma was perfectly happy, and did not miss looks and wealth in those davs.

It was a simple life that she led. not to say bovine, for its serious interests alm "st began and ended with the strings of dun cows that tinkled their way in Indian file through the village twice every day on their way to and from pasture, with their guardian spinning all the linen for her future household and her own trousseau in their rear, f old-fashioned methods of manufacture still prevail in the mountains. To herd the cows, to milk, to churn, to make butter and cheese, to have done all these things day by day from childhood, and to look forward only to a married life with very slightly modified conditions, was the lot of scores of Irma’s friends and compeers. But she had one possession that they had not, though she was scarcely aware of its worth herself, and certainly never thought it to rank with the gold brooch and earrings which the Burgomaster’s daughter wore on high days and holidays, or the well-stocked farm of which the village heiress was sole sovereign, and which brought her such scores of suitors, to the envy of all other unmarried women in the parish. Yet ornaments of solid gold, and landed property —be it ever so fertile—are not uncommon, while what Irma possessed was without :’s equal in all the world.

Euterpe is the most capricious of goddesses in the distribution of her gifts; she recognises hw as little as her brother uivinity Cupid. She cares nothing for incongruity, and is as wasteful as Dame Nature herself. It is nothing to her that the man or the woman on whom she bestows the larynx of a thrush has the brain of a cow or the mind of a swine. She

never asks whether the cradle was rocked by princess or peasant when she plays fairy godmother at a christening feast. Sue might almost be imagined to be laughing maliciously as she contemplates the havoc so often wrought by her terrible, beautiful dower of song. Irma sang like the birds, because it was her natural instinct, not because she could appreciate the beauty of the notes, which few but the cows heard. True, she had a reputation in the district as a fine singer, but that was nothing much, for the scope of her fame was hemmed in by the mountains, and besides, every

German can sing more or less. It was nothing to value herself on—not like her achievements with butter and cheese—or so she thought, till the day when Lady Dorothy Hexford heard her singing over her work in the upland pastures. Lady Dorothy Hexford, the wellknown musical enthusiast, passed through the mountain village quite by accident in a driving tour from Prague to Wilhelmstadt. She and her traveHing companion, a younger lady of similar tastes, changed horses at the Gasthof. and made what they thought a rather unsavoury luncheon off greasy kalbsfleisch and swiss cheese, after which they strolled about the village looking at the rudely frescoed white houses, the miscellaneous wood carvings in the modest shop windows and the trout darting under the bridge over the clear little stream that bisected the principal street. They had plenty of time on hand, and when they had seen what little there was to be seen in the streets they wandered out into the country beyond. “Listen to that!” exclaimed Lady Dorothy. suddenly gripping her friend’s arm and coming to a standstill. “What! a girl singing?” returned the somewhat startled friend. “But. my dear, there is singing and singing; 1 have never heard such a voice in my life. What a waste! Where is the girl? I must certainly

find out who she is and all about her.”

It was not difficult to track Irma when she was pouring that flood of melody into the sunlit air. She was standing leaning against the dun side of one of her patient beasts, spinning like a legendary princess, when Lady Dorothy walked up and accosted her with characteristic impetuosity.

“My good girl,” she exclaimed, “you really should not sing in the open air. It will simply be the ruin of your voice.” The girl had wide eyes, rather like a cow’s. She opened them to their utmost extent at this address, and her answer was slow in coming: “Where, then, should I sing, gracious lady?” she demanded at length. "That we shall see,” returned Lady Dorothy, enigmatically, cooling down as fast as she had taken fire. She asked a string of questions of which Irma was too dense to understand the object, though she was not quick enough to lie offended at a stranger's inqusativeness. She answered them

all in her slow, deep voice, that was rather like the toll ng of a big church bell, and completely forgot them as soon as asked. She was as devoid of curiosity as :he was of imagination. and when the strange lady asked her for her name and address -he never dreamt of returning the question. So little did the whole episode impress her that by the evening she had forgotten all about it. and it so happened that she never mentioned it to anvbodv.

There was some excitement in the village when a fortnight later it leaked out that an English lady was making inquiries about Irma, “the girl at the farm.” to the end that her parents or relatives—if she had any—and failing them, her employers, should give the girl permission to leave butter making and go to study at the Conservatoire at Wilh lmstadt Irma's betrothed disapproved. “It is rank foolishness. Irma." he

exclaimed, on first hearing of the proposition. “What should you, a country girl, want with study? You studied enough at school before you took to herding cows” (when she was twelve years old), “did you not? And you know all it is necessary for a woman to know very well already. I never heard such a mad English notion!”

Irma therefore went to Lady Dorothy and told her that the project roust be given up. Hansel thought it ansurd. But the enterprising Lady borothy had no idea of al.owing a country boor to rob the world of a prima donna by his senseless objections. She destended herself on his carpenter’s shop, and through the medium of an interpreter, contrive": to make him understand of the glorious career in store for Irma. Lady Dorothy hoped thereby to exeite his cupidity, but she failed. He objected more strongly than ever, being shrewd enough to guess that after mixing with a class above her own. Irma would be unwilling *o decline upon his level. The girl’s mother was equally set against her daughter’s advancement. She frankly disbelieved in Lady Doiothy's estimate of Irma’s vocal capacity, and held that a term at die Conservatofre would ririn the girl lor churning butter and milking cows. Both mother and fiance, however. overrated their influence, am! overdid their remonstrances, and woke up the obstinacy that lay behind Irma’s surpassing obtuseness. Within a month the girl was learning to sing scales at Lady Dorothy's expense. and practising shakes in a little lodging-house in a back streel of Wilhelmstcdt. while the passersby looked up at the windows, impressed even in that city of singers. Lady Dorothy went about boasling. "Take care of your laurels," she said to the great prime donne, for she knew most of them personally.

The professors at the Conservatoire were quite of Lady Dorothy’s opinion, -but they did not mention the fact to Irma, for fear of turning her head and spoiling the good work she was doing. In a sense she was easy to train, for she was too stupid i<» do anything but what she was told, but she was not an interesting pupil, in spite of the marvel of her voice. “Mein Gott, what a log!” exclaimed her professors, though they always added, “But what a gifted log!” For some years Irma lived at V.'ilhehMstadt, and studied, and cfccasional'y saw her patroness, and frequently won medals at the Conservatoire competitions. Then she was handed over like a parcel by Lady Dorothy- to the impresario of the opera house, and “came out” in the well-worn part of Marguerite. The opera house was crowded on the night when Irma took her place among the world’s first rank of prime donne. The Grand Duke himself was not there (he never attended the performances), but his musicloving son. Prince Adolf, was. and so was hi- equally mus'c-loving granddaughter Princess Dagtnar. Lady I lorothy had the stage box. and sat in ealm, anticipated triumph. with the great composer. Candoce. at the side and the impresario of the NewYork Opera House behind her. She was a power in the musical world, end the two great men were quite i on-tent to take her word for it that that evening a star would rise. Superficially Irma looked the part of Marguerite. “ni demoiselle, ni belle.” She displayed her wonderful organ to the best advantage in singing the music. She acted as might have been expected of her. but that did not signify; no one want-

ei* a prima donna who could act so long- as she could sing. It was the beginning of her glory as a singer and her ruin as a woman The herds Woman songstress became ■he rage. Tte opera house was packed on her •’nights,” and the suite uf i ooms she occupied in the Hotel Prinzess Luitpold was a perfect bower of bowers. There was always a crowd on the pavement to see her go in and out of her hotel, and her photograph was in most of the shop winiSuws and kiosks.

Soon she began to appear in surprising diamonds on the stage, and elsewhere, her taste not being of the best, and to be seen every off night dining and supping at the best known (and most expensive) restautrants. By this time her head, which at the ■best of times had nothing in it, was completely turned. She did not know the boundary line, and being too stupid to learn she soon overstepped it. Lady Dorothy drove to her hotel and gave her some salutary advice: she

>• as appalled by the way in which her remonstrances were received, and took counsel with Candoee. “What is this I hear of you?’’ inquired the great composer, who was prone to take an admonitory attitude towards his proteges. “The things that you do. mademoiselle, are an outrage—they are not decent. But see! then, it is just like a mad eow to behave so. Milady Dorothy has been telling me how you stood on the table at the Kronprinz Cafe and sang songs that even the waiters blushed to hear, milady tells in-’. “What business is it of milady’s?” demanded Irma sulkily. “A starche : dried-up old maid that cannot enjoy life and would prevent anyone else from doing so.”

‘Ah, ingrate! And it is fine of von. per Bacche! to speak thus of old maids!” retorted Candoee. of w horn no woman had ever got the better in vituperation. “Are you a married woman, or likely to be? What is this I hear of Graf von Hold < stein and Baron Moses Silber? Do von not know that half the town saw you leave that Jewish brigand’s

villa at six o’clock in the morning, and the other half know who gave you that big diamond necklace you are so proud of, and that both halves are talking of your conduct at the Bal de I’Opera? You will be chased from the town. Do you not know the Grand Duke’s code? Immorality, if you like, but noise—no. And you have combined the two.” "I told her my opinion of her,” exclaimed Irma, whose slow brain had not got beyond Candoce’s allusions to Lady Dorothy. “What has she to do with me now that I am a great artist?” “Whether you are a great artist or not.” remarked Candoee, “Milady Dorothy is a great lady. If you were not as stupid as a vegetable marrow you would know that there is a difference; my soul, yes!” “I shall do* as 1 like!” said Irma sulkily. “I have my New York and iny London engagements in my pockets. and your milady may go and spin.” “Well, and did you bring her to

reason?” asked Lai’y Dorethy when Candoee called on her at her hotel the next afternoon. She was considerably disgusted with her protegee and with the failure of her own influence. ’’Reason? Is there reason in her pumpkin head?” inquired the complimentary Candoee. “Ah. milady, you have done many- good things, but this time you have done a bad on<. You had better have left her to her cows. They were better company than rich Jews and fast young nobles.” Lady Dorothy. whose conscience said the same, looked uncomfortable. •’lt is not my fault.” she remarked at last. “One is apt to forget that a woman may have a great gift and a -mall soul.”