GENIUS EAPLAINS GENIUS

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 1, 1 October 1902, Page 33

GENIUS EAPLAINS GENIUS

Illustrated by F. Hutton

fHE dawn of another grey day crept through the small, misty window, casting a dim halo over the dingy attic. The writer turned restlessly on his pillow, his eyes now and again meeting the obscure outlines of rejected manuscripts which strewed the half-broken-down table.

He had resolved to become a writer — to make his living at literature — Ye Gods ! go think of it in solitude !

" I must," he thought, " get up and resume work on the novel I am now working at. It will bring me fame — fortune, and likewise the hand of the girl I love dearer than life. They say that the dawn is the hour for deep, noble, lofty thoughts/

He thrust his long, hairy spindleshanks out of bed, fumbled in the pocket of the threadbare coat, hanging behind the door, for matches, and lit a candle. It was a small, filthy room, of true Bohemian type, scantily furnished with dilapidated chest of drawers, chair, and almost blanketless bed. The paper, partly covered with cobwebs, was drooping from the walls.

He dressed himself, and for some time, under the feeble light of the candle, endeavoured to write. But, no, his mind became restless — the words came not— the rush of subVol. VII —No. 1.— .3

lime sentiments, which leaped warm from his heart the night before, were this morning absent. He threw down the pen, leaned back in his chair, placed both hands behind his head and gazed for some time in silence at the faint, still light of the candle. His face was thai of a man four and twenty, ashen, pale and drawn with want. A dark mass of unkempt hair clustered over a well-formed forehead, from under which looked far-away brown eyes, an aquiline nose and a mouth, once refined and sensitive, but now often closing in hard, set lines. Had the inspiration left him ? Would he not be able to finish his book ? Those thoughts rankled in his brain cells until the bright sun sent its glorious shafts through the small window, displaying on the floor a carpet, with the pattern lon^ since eliminated. Again his fingers closed like a vice on the pcn — he tried to write — again he failed. The perspiration broke out in tiny beads on his forehead ; the very air seemed hushed with the deep silence which followed. His pulse — his heart throbbed with wild emotion. He rose, drew aside the discoloured curtain, and unconsciously lifted the window. Instantly the delicate fragrance of the flowers, standing in three small red vases on the outer sill, was wafted in on the light morning breeze. The exquisite, melodious strains of a violin came floating with delicious

tenderness from the tiny garden below.

Who could be playing at so early an hour ? He listened with a spellbound intensity. The music rose and fell, with a heavenly sweetness —a sweetness that filled the air with solemn, rich harmony. Softly it ebbed, as the tide of life ebbs from the unconscious bosom — lower and lower it grew, as if gradually accompanying some pure soul into the glorious paradise of eternity.

The writer strained his ears. It seemed to carry him away, soaring on the wings of ecstasy. He leaned, with his ear drooped to the open window, where the sun glinted on the rosebuds, the beads of dew hanging from their petals, sparkling like balls of crystal. As he listened his brows arched in a frown of wonder, and his eyes glowed with a spiritual light. Fainter and fainter came the solemn notes — he pressed his ear still closer to the open window, but the marvellous strains died away, as if the soul had reached its long-looked-for destination. For a few moments all was still. Then a large black cat, its coat shining in the sun like polished jet, leapt from the ground on to the fence dividing the adjacent yard. At that instant the music burst out afresh. It rose in a perfect storm of galloping harmony. The clear sweeping of the hoof beats of many horses, as if rushing to battle, the clashing jingle of the murderous bayonet — the cries of the agonised soldier, as he receives the fatal bullet — the sudden thud of the horse falling beneath its rider — all the bloody deeds of war — of licensed murder — rent the air, and carried the listtiner into the highest drift of imagination. Anon the sounds changed into vibrating cadence ; the bubbling noise of leaping cascades, rushing brooks, mingled .with the echo of the rolling surf, breaking amid rocky caverns. Every sound was perfect in itself ; every note swept into the air as if guided by a supermundane player. "When the

intoxicating strains ceased, the writer breathed freely, and thrusting his head out the window he saw from whence they emanated .

A middle-aged man sat turning over some music sheets close to the small flower-beds that ran along the foot of the dividing fence. He wore a tattered, dark, greasy-looking coat, had no hat on, and his hair was black, long and matted. The violin, which he had just finished playing, lay on his knees. Presently he turned his head, and his black eyes, as they rolled in a careless gaze, rested on the head projecting out of the window.

" Excuse me," said the writer, " for acting the eaves-dropper, but I must congratulate you on your masterly playing. It is really beautiful ; I have never heard anything so wonderful. It has fascinatedcharmed me ; I have been listening enraptured, to the marvellous flow of your heavenly chords/ The musician ran the fingers of his right hand through his matted hair — then looked with a far-away, soft, dreamy stare at the writer.

" You have heard me play," he said, as he laughed, ironically, rose from where he was sitting-, and walked leisurely along, fingering the instrument the while, until he came directly under the window, then added in a deep Italian accent : " H'm, you have not heard me play ; you have heard my soul play ! I am but the instrument through which those sounds pass. You see this V he held out the grimy violin, "• there is great music in it, but it will not — will not play — will not sound that great musicpowerful harmony of tone — cannot be brought out but by a great master ; so with the man— the player ; he is but the instrument in the hands of a great master— the glorious master of Nature. Yes, that music which you heard was the vibration of my soul shaken to its inmost fibres. It comes upon me at certain moments, and remains but for a short time. I could not play

"I have been listening enraptured to the marvellous flow of such heavenly rich chords/

that same music now if you gave me the Crown jewels. It is gonepassed like drifting clouds of silvery vapour across the moon. That harmony — that pathos — those rolling chords of deep, solemn melody have been composed by no man on this planet ; they belong not to Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Handel, but are wafted along on the fresh, balmy winds of Heaven until they alight on the instrument through which they play/ Here he paused and stroked his long, drooping moustache. Many streaks of candlegrease shone on the front of his threadbare coat, and his trousers hung in undignified and tattered folds around two gaunt legs. " But/ exclaimed the writer, eyeing the man keenly, " you should make an immense fortune playing such superb music as that ?" <l Ha, ha, ha !" He laughed more derisively than at first. " I see— l see you are like everybody else— you do not understand ; I tell you that that music is gone—

swept from the instrument. I cannot now play it until it returns, of which 1 know not the hour. It may be noon, morning or midnight. When it comes I have to rise. If I'm in deep slumber, it matters not. 1 have played it amid peals of thunder — amid utter darkness, when the wind rustled my garments and the bitter, driving sleet tingled my cheeks — when the lightning flashed like a chain of gold across the Heavens. Yes, J," and he tapped the side of his head with the long, skinny fingers of his left hand, '"' I have poured it out and sent it coursing on the wind like a choir of angels. Aye, if I could only retain

that music when it flashes through my being— flashes like meteors — •thrilling the very heart of the instrument — royalty, society, the world would dance as puppets before my inartistic figure. I would need not to wear these robes of grime ; I would not have to do what I have to-day, go out and play in the streets for the merest pittance— play this mechanical composition, devoid of soul — of feeling- - of all that the artist loves/ He opened the music sheets, which he carried under his arm, and ran his fingers along the bars. " Could you not in some way manage to retain the notes ?" inquired the writer, his face overshadowed with stupified wonder. " Eetain the notes \" echoed the musician. " 1 tell you that it's my soul that's moved. I have no command over it. Besides that music is not to be retained by man. Sometimes it thrills my being — moves — pulsates through my heart. For the time I am lost to this world in dreams, sublime dreams of ecstasy that lift my soul to a diviner, a newer life — then flow the strains of that soft, solemn, glorious melody you first heard — that melody which carries the mind over seas of beautiful visions — visions where the sun glints on the surface of many oceans, turning them into vast glittering lakes of gold. Angels, radiant and beautiful, soar above them, singing praises this world knows not of. Other times it comes like a blast of thunder, which seems to rend the very earth in twain. Then this bow sweeps with weird, deft movement this violin of the commonest workmanship, trembles as though it were a reed dallying in the wind. It echoes the sounds rising within me— sounds of the falling of mighty rocks amid the fury of a terrible storm— the shrieks of damned -souls writhing in agonised terror— the curling, hissing sounds of leaping tongues oi flame acting as a footstool for the fiends howling above; I shudder— l sway like an aspen, as

I see with lustrous, spiritual eyes those vivid pictures. lam powerless to cease playing — my body, my soul is in the hands of another. The thunderous storm passes over, and is immediately replaced by fair scenes of magnificent land scapes, where green trees form arches across silent streams that gently trickle over myriads of white pebbles and sweet little birds with ruffled feathers, pour out a cascade of delicious notes amid the green canopies and heavenly breezes. Then it is that I find voice, and I sing in Shelley's exquisite lines : •' The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's beings mingle, Why not I with thine?" Those words come as a finishing crown of joy amid the scenes I live amongst. Here he assumed quite a dramatic attitude, and lifting his right foot, he rested it on the rickety chair standing beside him. For a few moments the writer, his eyes following the man's movements in amazement, was puzzled, and commenced to doubt his sanity. Then he said in a soft, soothing tone : " It is genius ; it is genius ! For no man but one possessed of genius could perform such marvellous, thrilling music. Few it is, indeed, who are endowed with so sublime— so wonderful a gift." The musician raised 'his head, and with his hand kept brushing back the hair trailing over his high, artistic forehead, then muttered, lolling his eyes in languid motion : " Genius, genius ! God forbid that it be not genius of the class mentioned in our daily papers. I laugh— l chuckle to myself when I pass the bookshops, and see the photographs of authors adorning the covers of their miserable efforts. and the papers dub those men as

geniuses — endeavour to cram it down tne public's throat. Genius," lie curled his lip as he stared up at the window, his matted hair shining in the morning sun. " No, genius knows no vanity — it sits for no photographs — it struggles — it lives — thrives in its garret, and cares not that for the world." He snapped his fingers in the air. " Yes, it laughs at the frivolity of the atoms around it. It cares not for society, pomp, dress, gold, or show, but seeks solitude, where it grows, blooms, inhales the inspiring breath of Heaven, its sole cultivator, which sends it flickering, bursting into a sudden flame. But I must not waste further time — I must go — commence my daily toil amongst the bees— the bees— the bustle — find a crust to feed this clay body."

" Here/ said the writer, " is all I can afford. lam poor myself, and have my own struggles to undergo/ and he threw down a halfcrown. It alighted with a loud jingle on the hard concrete flooring of the yard.

The dark eyes of the player shone with a brighter lustre as he eagerly grasped the coin, then with a cynical smile said :

" Friend, I thank you. This will stave back the hunger for many days. If ever you want me, I live here amid chaos at the rear of this building/

He raised his right hand, the finger nails of which protruded, and pointed towards the back of the

house. Then turning his glance on the writer, he added : " But your face is the face of a dreamer — your eyes look tired. They are the eyes of the idealist— the builder of- visions. Do not think me impudent, friend. But J read— l see— you are dreaming of the days to come. Well, if you want to bring out the tone of the instrument — the clear, inspiring ring of the Bell— seek solitude amid the green fields, where the grass bends before the light breeze, which brings with it the delicate perfume of many flowers. Go anywhere, even among the white, ghostly tombs, the shrines of your dead ancestors, but get away from the humdrum of the everlasting barrel-organs, for they will cause your senses to swim in a sea of chaos, your germ thoughts will float— will but skim the surface, and the kernel of the subject will still remain buried in the heart of the instrument. Farewell, friend/ he waved his hand in the air, "if you want me, my name is Baldin Pelipso, ask of me from the landlady, but present no card." He gathered up the music sheets which had fluttered to the ground during his excited moments. Then rising, once more waved his long, bony arm aloft, muttering : " Farewell, farewell," as he strode with a swinging stride behind the green trees at the rear of the building. And the writer lent on the windowsill for some time thinking, thinking, thinking.