The record-union., 1891-09-26

to my violin. gave her kind of scold-
ing such as one could to so beautiful little
creature, for the passage was draughty
and cold, and sent her away with some
bon-bons. She shook back her long,
dark hair: You are not angry and l am
not naughty she said; and | shall come
back. | thank you for your bon bons;
but like your music better than bon
| bons, or fairy tales, or anything in the
world
"But she never came back to the pass
age again, monsieuri The next time /
came across the Count I sent her an lnvl-
tation, little diffidently, for he had
! never spoken to me of her, and he was a
strange and difficult man. Now he SIM
ply shrugged his shoulders, with a smile
in which, for once, there seemed more
entertainment than malice. The child
could visit me when she chose: if 1t
amused either of us, so much the better.
And we were content, and she came to
me often; after while, indeed, she was
with me almost always. Child as she
was, she had already the promise of her
magnificent voice; and | taught her to
use it, to sing, and to play on the piano,
and on the violin, to which she took the
most readily. She was like a singing
! bird in the room, such pure, clear hottest
| And she grew very fond of me; she would
fall asleep at last in my arms, and so stay
until the Count would take her with him
when he entered long after midnight. He
came to me naturally for her soon; and
they never seemed long those hours that
/ watched over her sleep. / never knew
| him harsh or unkind to the child; he
seemed simply Indifferent to her as to
everything else. He had exhausted life,
and he hated it; and he knew that death
was oh him, and he hated that even more.
And yet he was careful of her, after a
fashion, buying her bon-bons and little
costumes when ne was in the vein; pitch
! ing his voice softly when he would stay
and talk with me as though he relished
her sleep. One night he did not come to
fetch her at all. l had wrapped a blanket
round the child where she lay on my
| bed, and had sat down to watch by her;
and presently too fell asleep. L do not
know how long l slept, but when / woke
there was gray light in the room. /
was very cold and stiff, but could hear,
close by, the soft regular breathing of the
! child. There was great uneaSineSs on
me; and after a while | stole out across
the passage and knocked at the Counts
4 door. There was no answer, but it gave
when l tried it, and so / went in. The
lamp had smoldered out; there was sick
| Odor of petrol everywhere, and the shut
ters were closed; but through the chinks
the pitiless gray dawn streamed in and
showed me the Count sitting very still by
| the table. His face wore a most curious
smile, and had not his great cavernous
eyes been open I should have believed
him asleep; suddenly it came to me that
| he was dead. He was not good man,
monsieur, nor an amiable, but a true vir-
| tuoso and full of information, and |
! grieved. 1 have had masses said for the
repose of his soul"
1 He paid tribute of silence to the dead
mans memory, and then he went on:
at seemed quite natural that / should
take his child. There was no one to care,
no one to object: it happened quite easily.
| We went, the little one and /, to another
part of the city. We made quite new
| life. On! my God! it is very long time
ago."
! Quite suddenly his voice went tremu-
/ lous, but, after pause, hardly percepti-
! BILE, he recovered himself and continued
| with an accent Of apology:
81 am foolish old man and very gar
rulous. 1t is not good to think of that
nor to talk of it: do not know why do.
| But what would you have? She loved me
| then; and she had the voice and the dis
position of an angel. l have never been
very happy. / think sometimes, mon
sieur, that we others who care much for
art are not permitted that. But certainly
those few rapid days when she was
child were good, and yet they were the
days of my defeat. / found myself out
then. l was never to be great artist,
a maestro. A second-rate man, a good
music teacher for young ladies, capable
| performer in an orchestra-what you
will, but a great artist never! Yet in
| those days, even when my opera failed,
had consolation. [ could say 1 have a
| childi L would have kept her with me
| always, but it could not be; from the
very first she would be singer. | knew
| always that day would come when she
would not need me. She was meant to
be the worlds delight, and had no right
to keep her, even if | could. l held my
beautiful strange bird in her cage until
she bent her wings against the bars; then
| opened the door. At the last, / think,
that is all we can do for our children, our
best beloved, our very heart strings:
stand free of them; let them go. The
world is very weary, but we must all find
that out for ourselves. Perhaps when
they are tired they will come home per-
hapS not, perhaps not. 1t was to the
Conservatoire at Milan that l sent her
finally, and it was at La Scala that she
4 afterwards appeared. And at La Scala.
too, poor child, she met her evil genius.
the man named Romanoff. baritone in
her company, own son of the devil,
whom she married. All. if I could
have prevented it, if / could have pre-
vented iti''
He lapsed into long silence; great
| WEAKNESS seemed to have come over
him; and in the gray light which filtered
in through the dingy window blinds his
face was pinched and wasted, unuttera-
bly, worn and forlorn.
But | did not prevent it." he said al
last, "for all my good will; perhaps
| merely hastened it by unreasonable in
reference. And so we weht in different
ways with anger, l fear, and at least
with sore hearts and misunderstand-
ing"
| an " hot iy1- T
was moved to protest
But surely you meet sometimes; sure
! iy this woman, who was as your own
child"
He stopped me with solemn appealing
| gesture.
You are young, and you do not alto
| gether understand. You must not Judge
her; you must not believe that she for
! gets, that she does not care. Only it is
better like this, because it could never be
| as before. | could not help her. want
nothing that she can give me, no--not
anything; have my memories. I hear
OF her from time TO time; hear what the
world says of her, the imbecile world.
and | smile. Do 1 not know best? I,
who carried her in my arms when she
was that highv'
saw him once more at the little res
taurant in Soho, before sudden change
OF fortune, calling me abroad for an alb
sence, as it happened, of years, closed the
habit of our society. He gave me the
God-speed of brother artist, though
mine was not the way of music, with
many prophesies of my success, and the
pressure of his hand as he took leave OF
me was tremulous.
Il am an old man, monsieur, and we
may not meet again in this world. wish
you all the chances you deserve in Paris;
but IL shall greatly miss you. If you
! come back in time you will find me in