The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXI, Issue 42, 15 October 1903, Page 23

The Storyteller

THE PROFESSOR'S SECRET i. A few gleams of sunshine stole playfully into the large, cheerful music-room and threw their dreamy shadows on a white marble bust of Beethoven that stood on the elegant Chickering in the corner. Signor Francesco Bottini had been busy most of the afternoon, and there, at his table, he still sat, pouring over the manuscripts of a new Keq'uiem Mass -which he had just completed. His eyes had a satisfied look in them and deep in his heart he knew that he had written his masterpiece, something that would at least ring itself into the ears of the musical critics. Presently he rose and walked to the window and, brushing back tine heavy damask ourtains, his eyes wandered down into the busy, throbbing street, pulsating with life. Dear old St. Patrick's across the street looked radiant in her twilight glory and over the distant, lone, blue hills the sun was throwing his last, bright shafts of light. Without, everything was bright and cheerful, but within the heart of the old professor all was dark and desolate. As he stood there one could not help but admire him — this son of vine-clad, sunny Italy. He was not very tall, in years about sixty, and there was a bpld sweep of fulness in his appearance. His hair was black as the raven and it somehow intensified the golden tint of his complexion. On his face were written earnestness, refinement, and great deipth of character. It was a face of marvellous sweetness and great gentleness, and yet there was a latent sadness in those dark, fiery, dancing eyes whose secret no one could understand, much less fathom. For a moment Signor Bottini sighed heavily and, turning, walked over and sat down at his piano. His eyes were moist and his fingers trembled as they moved slowly over the cold, ivory keys. He was playing the ' Miserere '—the heart-song of Verdi, his fellow-country-man and teacher — and the sad, plaintive tones' seemed to find an eicho in his lonely soul. The tender air that followed was sweet and stirring. It also seemed to appeal strongly to the Signor's present feelings and several large tears rolled down his cheeks. ' Hortense ! ' he whispered tenderly. ' Hor tense ! O Blessed Jesu, have mercy on her soul ! ' There was a rap at the door and suddenly a welldressed young Italian entered. It was Angelico, the professor's trusty office-boy, and his voice had a ring of freshness in it when he said : ' Signor, Mademoiselle Laporte ! ' The old man read the perfumed card and exclaimed : ' Please show the young lady upstairs, Angelico.' The door closed gently and in a few moments opened again. ' 1 am delighted to see you, Signor,' came from the handsome young woman as she entered the sttudy, gowned in a simple dress of black. ' But you are not well — you 100k — ' ' I am pretty well, Felice,' interrupted the professor.' ' 'Tis true I look somewhat strange— but that is nothing, child. You see I am so troubled and worried with my new Mass and this accounts for it. But, pardon me, how are you, Felice ? I have missed you in my study. you were always so bright and cheerful.' The soft deep eyes — blue as the sea — suddenly opened and the young woman replied somewihat nervously : ' I am not well, Signor. There is a wound deep in my heart that time alone can heal. Since God, in His wisdom, took Ilortense away from us, our home has been empty. With her went its brightest sunbeam, its purest flower, and its highest and noblest inspiration. Six months have gone by since that sad day, and dear old mother's heart will never be the same again. To-day mother asked me to open the piano. It was the first time for many days. I sang for her, and when I tiuxned she was smiling. It was the first smile I had seen on mother's face m all these long, weary months — and, oh, it made my heart so glad. Then she came over and put her hand on my shoulder and said': " Felice, my child, you must call and see Signor Bottini and arrange with him for your singing lessons. The house is empty since Hortense sings no more. I miss her in the parlor, in the cathedral, in the concert hall— here, there, everywhere—and I want you to take her place." Signor, will you then for mother's sake, for Hortdnse's sake, take an interest in me ? ' 1 Certainly, Felice,' answered the dear old musician. ' For your mother's sake, for Hortense's sake, I will do anything. There are great possibilities in your voice, my child, and I know you will succeed because you work diligently. Only to-day I met Father O'Brien and he regretted that Hortense's place had not yet been filled in the choir. " The pure, innocent &oul," he said, "how

we have missed her ! Rut God knew best He heard her voice. It was clear and penetrating like a lark's and He called her to sing His praises in that heavenly choir, whose sweetness surpasses all understanding." Felice ! the position is open. Work hard and you may fill your dead sister's place.' When Felice Laporte was gone Signor Bottini heaved a sigh of relief. The young girl had not surmised, in fact did not know, that the very meaition of Hortenjse's name was extremely painful to him and recalled many precious memories that echoed through trfie sacred aisles of the past. He walked to the window, the day was getting dark, and down in the streets the newsboys were busy. Then he stirred the fire in the grate and for & long time watched the flames leaping wildly in their mad endeavor to get away up the chimney. Then he sank into an armchair and, burying his face in his hands, whispered under his breath : 1 You may fill your dead sister's place. Ah, yes, you may, but there is one place your voice can never reach, Felice. It is the audience-chamber of my heart,' and when Hiortense, bright bird, stopped singing, I closed its doors upon the cold world forever.' 11. Mademoiselle Hortense Laporte, though young In years, had been a power in her native city. Everywhere she was heralded as a musical prodigy — a born artistana her sweet,, cultivated voice stamped her at once as one of the leading prima donnas. Signor Bottini was [roud of his talented pupil and wrote an opera especially for her, in w/hich she fairly electrified her audiences with her marvellous soprano voice. She had many rich triumphs, yet, withal, hers was the self-same, unassuming, beautiful, Christian character, that won its way right into the heart of everyone. She was loved by all classes of people and the poor of many cities were pleased to call her their <^ueen of song, because she had repeatedly given so much of her income and services to lighten their burdens. But in the height of her glory she was stricken down with the fever, while watching at the bedside of her widowed mother, and alas, never recovered from her attack. Her death was regretted everywhere, and especially in her native city, and none felt her loss more keenly than Signor Bottini. Often . he would say to himself : ' Since Hortense has gone out of my life, I feel so lonely. My nights are restless and my days are sunless.' Then he would mutter loving words and ask Giod to bless^ his^ losit one with eternal sunshine and happiness. The days were getting longer, and, with his many pupils and. choir rehearsals, Bottini was an overworked man. The members of the St. Patrick's Choir were simply delighted with the new Requiem Mass, and all were diligently preparing their respective parts. Felice, too, was putting her whole soul into her music, and Sigjior Bottini was more than pleased with his new Tenfant adorable,' for she was, without doubt, the most promising of his many pupils. One day she came to his cosy studio for her lesson and expressed her delight at finding the Signor in better spirits. ' Ah, Signor,' she said, ' I am delighted to find you so happy. Do you know, I often used to wonder why the heart of my old professor should be always so sad.' Signor Bottini raised himself in his chair, straight as an arrow, and said, with much feeling : ' Felice, my past has many tender memories.' When the lesson was over Signor Bottini rose from the piano and complained of being dizzy. He walked a few steps, a strange, wild look crept Into his face ; he tottered from side to side, then staggered and fell to the floor with a heavy crash. Felice uttered a wild cry and Aingehco, upon hearing the noise, quickly ran upstairs. 1 What is the matter, Mademoiselle ? ' he gasped. 1 The Signor has fainted. 1 am afraid he is dying,' cried Felice, distractedly. ' Kirn for the priest and the doctor ! Quick, Angelico ! There's not a moment to lose ! Run for your very life.' Felice, poor girl, was trembling like a leaf. She tried to arouse the poor man, but, alas, it was useless. Father O'Brien and Dr. McCabe arrived in a few minutes and lifted the dying man to the couch. ' Is there any danger to life, Doctor ? ' asked ■ the good priest somewhat nervously, after a few minutes-. ' Yes, the poor fellow is in a serious condition,' answered the doctor. ' He has sustained a paralytic stroke — 'hemorrhage into the brain. See, his left arm is paralysed ! ' ' Left arm paralysed ! ' shrieked Felice. ' Oh, my God ! The poor Signor— the poor Signor ! ' and she wept convulsively. There was some talk later of taking him to the hospital, but Felice interposed. 'If he must die, Father,' she pleadad, ' let it be here where h/e has livefd ovier 40 years of his life— here, in this very room, surrounded on all sides by his books. Let it be here in the light of

- Jft Beethoven's smile— here in the presence of his dear piano —his life's best friend, whose heartstrings even now wait for the noble, beckoning touch of his artist fingers ! I will stay with him until the end. Pie was a friend to me, Father, and I will be a friend to him, not only for my sake but also for the sake of Hor tense.' And all night long Felice watched and prayed at the deathbed of her friend and benefactor. Three weeks had passed and, to the surprise of everyone, Signor Bottini had made great progress towards recovery. Dr. McCabe was more than pleased, and would say, laughingly : ' Felice, it was your good nursing that saved him.' The Signor's return to consciousness was gradual, and now that his senses were perfectly restored, he conversed freely with his many pupils, who daily swarmed around his bedside to spend a few minutes with their dear old professor. Another month glided by. Signor Bottini was still very weak and had not yet left his bed. Surgeons and neurologists were called in. Every thing was tried to restore movement and sensation to his paralysed arm. Rest, massage, electricity, all had so far proven useless, and Dame Rumor now had it that the Signor would never get the use of his arm— that he would never play the pipe-organ in old St. Patrick's again. One afternoon the professor sent for the organist wtho was relieving him at the Cathedral and who, by the way, was an ex-pupil of his, saying that he had something of importance to tell him. ' You see, Richter,' he began, when he arrived, • on Thursday of next week Father O'Brien will celebrate an anniversary Reqiuiem for the repose of the soul of Mdlle Hortense Lapqrte, and I would like to have the occasion marked with special music, for she was a faithful and staunch member of the choir. My new Requiem Mass has not yet been produced, and 1 would like to have it sung on that day. Several months ago, just before I took sick, they knew the Mass perfectly, and one or two rehearsals this week with the full choir will be preparation q^iite sufficient.' • But, Bottini, it is impossible ! ' exclaimed Richter. ' I have no one that is capable of taking the heavy soprano solo parts. Some of the passages are extremely difficult and they require a master voice for their proper rendition.' 1 Never mind the soloist,' thoughtfully answered the Signor. ' She will not be found wanting when the proper time arrives.' 111. Father O'Brien and Signor Bottini were alone in the studio. The Professor had just gone to confession and received. The morning was bright and rosy and outside of the study window a gay little robin was chirping its blithe and cheerful matin song. The room was filled with the odor of roses and carnations, for flowers were everywhere in evidence. The Signor loved them and his pupils ' knew it, and every morning brought a fresh quota of the choicest blossoms from the down-town conservatories. The little Robin outside was soon joined by his mate, and together they now held forth in love's sweet serenade. 1 Listen to the robins, Father ! ' at last broke forth Bottini. ' There is a simplicity in their song that makes it all the more beautiful. They carol forth the music of hope.' ' And hope like the rainbow of summer, Gives a promise of Lethe at last.' ' Sing on, O birds ! I love your voices . You bring me the joy and the peace of a happy heart and your song teems with the freshness and purity of rich mountain air.' There was a faint tap at the door and in walked Felice and with her there came a goodly amount of sunshine. She looked beautiful as she stood in the doorway—the crisp morning air had brought the color to her cheeks. 1 Good morning, Father O'Brien ! You are an early caller. What do you think of my patient ? ' and Felice smiled sweetly and a ripple of girlish laughter burst from her bright, ruby-red lips. ' Felice, you are a capital nurse,' replied the priest, good-naturedly. • In fact, I would not hesitate placing myself under your care— providing you did all the nursing and I all the bossing.' Then he laughed a hearty laugh that was contagious, for even Bottini himself could not resist. 4 I suppose, Signor, you were wondering what had happened me,' Felice bjegan. addressing Bottirtj. Well, this morning you were fast asleep and I glided out silently with my music-roll over to mother's. She had not heard my voice in many weeks, and I was going to give her a concert all to herself— poor thing. I sang the ' Jewel Song ' from • Faust,' Gounod's ' Aye Maria, 1 and my solo parts in your new Mass for the dead. Mo-

—^- rr***: er was simply delighted with my progress and you don't know how her face brightened when I sang. But when sfae spoke of Hortense her voice trembled and there was a hint of sorrow in it.' 1 But, come, Felice ! ' suddenly broke in Father O'briem, « will you not sing for me, this mornijig ? I have not heard you for a year past.' The good priest was very sympathetic and he was afraid that if the* conversation was to go on thus he could not help but give vent to his feelings. ' Come,' he added, ' sing me Gounod's " Aye Maria ! " ' Felice seated herself at the piano and sang the selection beautifully, with all becoming digjnity and grace. The priest listened eagerly—so did the noble Signor, but, alas ! the latter 's thoughts were elsewhere. Before him there loomed a picture of Hortense in the old ohoir loft. He himself was at the organ ; below several thousand people were listening eagerly to that self-same • Aye Maria, 1 their heads bowed in prayer. Father O'Brien was at the altar— and all this, alas ! seemed but yesterday. 4 Well done, child ! ' lovingly said the .priest, as Felice rose and left the pianlo. •It was a capital and faultless rendition and I compliment you.' Signor Bottmi raised his head. There was a distant, tar-away look in his eyes and he seemed to have suddenly awakened from a dream. 1 Signor ! ' asked the priest, ' How long before your protege takes her place in the choir ? Her voice is nigh perfect now, methinks.' ' Before very long— before very long, 1 answered Bottini, somewhat distractedly. Felice and Father O'Brien exchanged smiles, but on the old face was written a deep and peculiar mystery. The aDternoon passed quietly and evening came with its dark, heavy shadows and hours of peace. The cathedral fclock had just struck the hour of. eig^it, when Felice rose from the table and approached the professor's couch and said : ' Signor, I will now run over to the church and go to confession before tihe crowd comes. Mother and I will bpth receive to-morrow. It is the anniversary of poor Hortense's death and Father O'Brien will sing a solemn Requiem Mass for her.' ' But stay, ch"ild, stay for a few minutes longer ! I have something to tell you— something to ask you before you go, 1 interrupted Bottmi. Felice drew nearer. Her face was pale and she felt as if her heart had suddenly stopped beating. Signor Bottini raised himself slowly on his couch. A weird look stole into his blood-shot eyes and he began nervously : 1 Felice, the time has come and I am going to reveal to you tihe secret that lies hidden in my heart. No ears have heard and none shall hear but thine. Would to God that I could preside at the organ to-morrow, I would play as I never played before, for the sake of Hortense —innocent, white dove— l see you are surprised and I may tell you now that I loved Hortense— loved her with all the tenderness of my poor heart and yet she never knew, for I never told her.' ' Loved Hortense, my sister ? ' interrupted Felice almost wildly. • Is it possible ? ' ' Possible,?i Yes, Felice,' he went on. ' And, listen*-to-morrow morning my new Requiem Mass is to be sung in dear old St. Patrick's for the. first time. Herr Richter has held rehearsals with the choir during the week. I promised that I would supply the soloist for the occasion, and Felice, I am going to ask you to take your place ita the choir to-morrow morniaig for the first time, to sing the solo parts of my flew Mass.' Felice drew back like a startled dove. 4To sing tomorrow, when the memory of Hortense will be so fresh within my heart ? How can I ? Why do you ask ? ' 1 I as>k, Felice, because I wrote that Requiem ita honor of Hottense and dreamed, one day in the past, that it would be sung on the anniversary of her death, i cannot go because my arm is paralysed. Everything is ready, and you, alone, axe capable of singing the soprano solo parts. If you say no, Felice, the new Mass cannot go on. Will you go, Felice 7 ' Felice stood speechless and her eyes seemed to be gazing far over the misty horizon of the past. She waitted an instant and the teaTs were, gathering in .her eyes-. Then a determined look crept into her pale, white face, and she said : ' Yes, noble Signor ! for your sake and for Hortense's sake I will go.' IV. The pearly gates of the morning opened and ushered in a perfect day. Signor Bottini turned nervously on his couch aod a look of sadness came into his eyes. He had been sitting up in his easy chair every afternoon for the past two weeks and Dr. McCabe reversed matters a little now and told Felice that the professor might sit up in the morning if he wished. This came as a blessing to the Signor. • Put my chair close up to the window this morning,' he said to Felice, • so that I will be able to hear the singing and the music. And, Felice, when you go to churcli, tell the sexton to open the large

window in the choir loft so that I will be able to hear it all the better.' When Felice was ready to go the professor took her hand in his and said : ' Felice, my child, now do your best. Remember, that Hortemse in heaven is listening.' The churdh bells had ceased ringing and now came the sounds of the organ, heavy and mighty as the ocean. Bottini trembled and looked at his paralysed arm. Then tears came to him and he bowed his head and remained in this attitude lor some time. THie ' Requiem Aeternam ' and ' Kyrie ' had been sung and Signor Bottini had heard every word. Then he raised his eyes to heaven and his lips moved in prayer. Out upon the air again came the swelling notes of the great organ. Then a noble Chorus of male voices reverently answered the chant of Father O'Brien at the altar. Then there was a pause until the clear, diapason notes played the beautiful prelude to the ' Dies Irae.' Signor Bottini raised himself and listened eagerly. Felice was singing and the words floated out upon the wings of the morning, clear and distinct. Low and sweet was the air at first, rising and falling till the mighty roaring voluminous voice filled every nook of that imposing edifice. There was nc grand opera trills anid triplets, no fairy-like cadenzas in the selection. It was nothing but a grand, simple, pleading, touching air-— one that/ came from thte heart ; one that went directly to the heart. A look of satisfaction crept into the Sigoor's wearied face when Felice had finished. Then the full choir of sixty voices took up the strain. It was full of power and majesty, and Bottini could hardly sit it out. His face twitched, he became restless, and he moved around nervously in his chair. He could stand it no longer. 1 I must go ! I must ! ' he gasped, as he rose from his chair and threw his> heavy cloak about him. ' I feel that Gold is urging me to go ' and he opened the door and made for the stairs. He felt weak, but the thought of what he was going to do seemed to bring surplus strength to his body. When Bottrtn reached the church door he was panting for breath. ' I must ! I must ! ' he still gasped, as ho entered the church and made for the steps that led to the gallery. The • Dies Irae ' was still being sung, and now came the last few sentences in a faint, trembling voice. When the Amen was sung, Signor Bottini staggered into the gallery and made for the organ. His breath came in interruptions. He whispered something to Herr Ridtiter, then turned and faced Felice and smiled gently. In a moment Bottini himself was at the organ— playing most beautifully— playing as he had never played before. Hi 3* paralysed "arm hung helpless at his side — his rigiht hand was on the keyboard. Herr Richter had charge of the stops. The Sig,nor looked strong and every one in that vast Cathedral seemed to recognise the strange power that swayed the keys and pedals of the organ. Now he was playing a delicate, distant-sounding aria— it was so sweet, so clear and tender, and it seemed as if the heavens had suddenly opened and an atngel was singing a song of peace and joy to the silent praying multitude below. '1 hen came the voice of the officiating priest and Bottini sent back answer from the organ. The ' Sanctus ' and ' Agnus Dei ' of the new Mass were beautifully rendered, and then followed the ' Libera.' This was, witihout a doubt, the heaviest part of the composition, and, during its rendition, Signor Botti'ni's strength at the organ gave way. Herr Richter begged to replace him, but the Sigmor only shook his head, smiled gently, and then played on. The last notes of the ' Libera ' had just died away, when Father O'Brien sang : 1 Requiem aeternam, dona ci, Domine ! ' Signor Bottini raised Ins eyes to heaven imploringly and played as the choir answered : ' Et lux perpelua luceat ci.' His face was of a deadly, ashen hue, and on his forehead several large beads of perspiration were shining. Again the priest chanted : ' Req.uiescat in pace ! ' B,ut the choir did not sing in response. There was only a shrill, sharp cry. It was the ciy of a woman, and several men sprang forward just as the' noble Signor 's head fell on the organ. They lifted him back. His wrist was pulseless, and on his face there was the expression of a smile. Within dear old St. Patrick's all was regret and sorrow, but within the soul of Signor Francesco Bottini heaven's brightest sunbeams of peace and happiness eternal were just then shining.—' Aye Maria. 1