Part Fifth
It was no easy matter to convinceHeinrich that it was finished. Hard to sayThat though they could not meet (he saw her wince)She still must keep the locket to allaySuspicion in her husband. She would payHim from her savings bit by bit—the oathHe swore at that was startling to them both.
Her resolution taken, Frau AltgeltAdhered to it, and suffered no regret.She found her husband all that she had feltHis music to contain. Her days were setIn his as though she were an amuletCased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining;Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining.
Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasksWere furbished up to seem like rituals.She baked and brewed as one who only asksThe right to serve. Her daily manualsOf prayer were duties, and her festivalsWhen Theodore praised some dish, or frankly saidShe had a knack in making up a bed.
So Autumn went, and all the mountains roundThe city glittered white with fallen snow,For it was Winter. Over the hard groundHerr Altgelt’s footsteps came, each one a blow.On the swept flags behind the currant rowCharlotta stood to greet him. But his lipOnly flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership
Was first again. This evening he had gotImportant news. The opera ordered fromYoung Mozart was arrived. That old despot,The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him comeHimself to lead it, and the parts, still hotFrom copying, had been tried over. NeverHad any music started such a fever.
The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse,The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made,With such a great attraction through the courseOf Carnival time. In what utter shadeAll other cities would be left! The tradeIn music would all drift here naturally.In his excitement he forgot his tea.
Lotta was forced to take his cup and putIt in his hand. But still he rattled on,Sipping at intervals. The new catgutStrings he was using gave out such a toneThe “Maestro” had remarked it, and had goneOut of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled,He was as happy as a little child.
From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more,Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at firstWas patient and well-wishing. But it woreUpon her when two weeks had brought no burstOf loving from him. Then she feared the worst;That his short interest in her was a lightFlared up an instant only in the night.
‘Idomeneo’ was the opera’s name,A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate.Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom cameHome for his tea, and it was very late,Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His stateWas like a flabby orange whose crushed skinIs thin with pulling, and all dented in.
He practised every morning and her heartFollowed his bow. But often she would sit,While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart,Absently fingering and touching it,The locket, which now seemed to her a bitOf some gone youth. His music drew her tears,And through the notes he played, her dreading ears
Heard Heinrich’s voice, saying he had not changed;Beer merchants had no ecstasies to takeTheir minds off love. So far her thoughts had rangedAway from her stern vow, she chanced to takeHer way, one morning, quite by a mistake,Along the street where Heinrich had his shop.What harm to pass it since she should not stop!
It matters nothing how one day she metHim on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by.Nor how the following week he stood to letHer pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly.How once he took her basket, and once hePulled back a rearing horse who might have struckHer with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck
How many times their business took them eachRight to the other. Then at last he spoke,But she would only nod, he got no speechFrom her. Next time he treated it in joke,And that so lightly that her vow she brokeAnd answered. So they drifted into seeingEach other as before. There was no fleeing.
Christmas was over and the CarnivalWas very near, and tripping from each tongueWas talk of the new opera. Each book-stallFlaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung,What singers hired. Pictures of the young“Maestro” were for sale. The town was mad.Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad.
Each day now brought a struggle ‘twixt her willAnd Heinrich’s. ‘Twixt her love for TheodoreAnd him. Sometimes she wished to killHerself to solve her problem. For a scoreOf reasons Heinrich tempted her. He boreHer moods with patience, and so surely urgedHimself upon her, she was slowly merged
Into his way of thinking, and to flyWith him seemed easy. But next morning wouldThe Stradivarius undo her mood.Then she would realize that she must cleaveAlways to Theodore. And she would tryTo convince Heinrich she should never leave,And afterwards she would go home and grieve.
All thought in Munich centered on the partOf January when there would be given‘Idomeneo’ by Wolfgang Mozart.The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, evenThose almost at the ceiling, which were drivenBehind the highest gallery, were sold.The inches of the theatre went for gold.
Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thinWith work, he hardly printed black behindThe candle. He and his old violinMade up one person. He was not unkind,But dazed outside his playing, and the rind,The pine and maple of his fiddle, guardedA part of him which he had quite discarded.
It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights,In little lights,Like will-o’-the-wisps flickering, fluttering,Here—there—Spurting, sputtering,Fading and lighting,Together, asunder—Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder,And the faint grey patch of the window shoneUpon her sitting there, alone.For Theodore slept.
The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day,’Twas called for noon, so early morning meantHerr Altgelt’s only time in which to playHis part alone. Drawn like a monk who’s spentHimself in prayer and fasting, Theodore wentInto the kitchen, with a weary wordOf cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard.
Lotta heard more than his spoken word.She heard the vibrating of strings and wood.She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds,When the sound began,Long as the spanOf a white road snaking about a hill.The orchards are filledWith cherry blossoms at butterfly poise.Hawthorn buds are cracking,And in the distance a shepherd is clackingHis shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep.The notes are asleep,Lying adrift on the airIn level linesLike sunlight hanging in pines and pines,Strung and threaded,All imbeddedIn the blue-green of the hazy pines.Lines—long, straight lines!And stems,Long, straight stemsPushing upTo the cup of blue, blue sky.Stems growing mistyWith the many of them,Red-green mistOf the trees,And theseWood-flavoured notes.The back is maple and the belly is pine.The rich notes twineAs though weaving in and out of leaves,Broad leavesFlapping slowly like elephants’ ears,Waving and falling.Another sound peersThrough little pine fingers,And lingers, peeping.Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping.There is a twittering up in the branches,A chirp and a lilt,And crimson atilt on a swaying twig.Wings! Wings!And a little ruffled-out throat which sings.The forest bends, tumultuousWith song.The woodpecker knocks,And the song-sparrow trills,Every fir, and cedar, and yewHas a nest or a bird,It is quite absurdTo hear them cutting across each other:Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once,And a loud cuckoo is trying to smotherA wood-pigeon perched on a birch,“Roo—coo—oo—oo—”“Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That’s one for you!”A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill!And the great trees tossAnd leaves blow down,You can almost hear them splash on the ground.The whistle again:It is double and loud!The leaves are splashing,And water is dashingOver those creepers, for they are shrouds;And men are running up them to furl the sails,For there is a capful of wind to-day,And we are already well under way.The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze.“Theodore, please.Oh, Dear, how you tease!”And the boatswain’s whistle sounds again,And the men pull on the sheets:“My name is Hanging Johnny,Away-i-oh;They call me Hanging Johnny,So hang, boys, hang.”The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts;They are swinging overHer and her lover.Almost swooningUnder the ballooning canvas,She liesLooking up in his eyesAs he bends farther over.Theodore, still her lover!
The suds were dried upon Charlotta’s hands,She leant against the table for support,Wholly forgotten. Theodore’s eyes were brandsBurning upon his music. He stopped short.Charlotta almost heard the sound of bandsSnapping. She put one hand up to her heart,Her fingers touched the locket with a start.
Herr Altgelt put his violin awayListlessly. “Lotta, I must have some rest.The strain will be a hideous one to-day.Don’t speak to me at all. It will be bestIf I am quiet till I go.” And lestShe disobey, he left her. On the stairsShe heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers!
He could not hear, he was not there, for sheWas married to a mummy, a machine.Her hand closed on the locket bitterly.Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreenCase of his violin. She saw the cleanSun flash the open clasp. The locket’s edgeCut at her fingers like a pushing wedge.
A heavy cart went by, a distant bellChimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate.She was alone. Her throat began to swellWith sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait?The violin she had begun to hateLay in its case before her. Here she flungThe cover open. With the fiddle swung
Over her head, the hanging clock’s loud tickingCaught on her ear. ’Twas slow, and as she pausedThe little door in it came open, flickingA wooden cuckoo out: “Cuckoo!” It causedThe forest dream to come again. “Cuckoo!”Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two.
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” the clock kept striking on;But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone.