Unfinished Portraits Part 5

The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. "May I use it--sometimes?" he asked, doubting.

Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. "You may use it." He laughed again.

"All the world will use it!" he said, patting him on the back. "It is a great discovery. Play more."

The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master slipped away. "Come down," he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk filled the doorway. "Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry this day."

Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on the table and regarded it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he said.

Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling.

The fat man raised his thumb from the table and twiddled it in the air.

It fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, half impatient, half laughing. "How is one to do it--such fool tricks! Ja, ja!"

The keen eyes watching him had a proud look. "You know what he will be--that boy," he said exultingly. "He will be a great musician!"

"He will be a great bother," grumbled Kerlman. "First," he checked off the vices on his fingers--"first, he comes to us three weeks late--three weeks late--because his brother promises, and takes it back and waits to die--Bah!" He took a sip of beer and laid out another fat finger.

"Second, he sings two octaves at the same time--two octaves! Did one ever hear such nonsense! Third, he loses his voice, his beautiful voice, and sings no more at all." He shook his head heavily. "Fourth, he is running away to Hamburg to listen--always to Hamburg, to listen to Reinken, and coming back to be forgiven. Ja, ja! Seven times I have forgiven him. I think he is making ready now to go once more!" He glared at his companion.

Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask you for that to-day," he said, smiling.

"Ja! ja--I have thought so." He looked sadly at the four short fingers resting on the table. "And fifth--fifth--now what is that fifth? Ach, it is that! That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That crawling, snivelling, stiff-necked one!" He brought it down with a thump on the table. "To make me all my days ashamed!" He held up the thumb and shook it scornfully.

High up in the Johanneskirche, in front of the big organ, the boy was playing--with head and hands and heart and feet and thumb--swaying to the music, lifting it from the great organ till it pealed forth, a mighty sound, and, breaking from the gloomy church, floated on the still air.... In the garden across the way, above their mugs, two old, white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled in the sun.

V

The Katherinenkirche was dark, and very still--except for a faint noise that came from a far corner of the upper left-hand gallery. The old verger, moving about in felt slippers below, paused now and then, and looked up as the sound grew louder or died away. It was like a mouse nibbling--and yet it was not a mouse.

The verger lighted a taper and prepared to ascend the stairs.

He heaved a sigh as he climbed the steep step, throwing the candle rays ahead of him into the gloom of the gallery. Not a sound. The silence of death was in the big church.... Muttering to himself, he traversed the long aisle at the top of the gallery, peering down into the vacant seats that edged the blackness below.

Suddenly he stopped. His eye had caught a gleam of something to the left of the last pillar. He snuffed the wavering taper with his fingers and leaned forward. A face grew out of the darkness and stood up.

"What are you doing?" demanded the old man, falling back a step.

"Eating my supper," said the youth. He held up a handkerchief. In the dim light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped themselves, and a generous odor of cheese floated out.

"In the church!" said the verger, with an accent of horror.

The youth's face regarded him pleadingly.

"Come away!" said the old man sternly.

He led the way down the steep stair, into a high, small room, lighted by a narrow window over which cobwebs ran. "Here you may eat," he said laconically.

With a grateful glance the youth seated himself on the edge of a chair and opening his handkerchief took out a piece of the dry bread. His teeth broke it crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as he ate.

The old man nodded with satisfaction. "That is the mouse," he said.

The youth smiled faintly.

"Where do you come from?" asked the verger.

"From Luneburg."

"You walked?"

The youth nodded.

"I have seen you before, here."

"Yes."

The old man watched him a minute. "You ought to have some beer with that bread and cheese," he said. "Have you no coppers?"

The youth shook his head. "Reinken is my beer," he said, after a little.

His face was lighted with a sweet smile.

The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He limped from the room. Presently he returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. "Drink that," he commanded.

The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. "Ja, that is good!" he said simply.

The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In half an hour Reinken comes to play,"

he suggested craftily.

The youth started and flushed. "To-night?"

"Ja."

"I did not think he came at night," he said softly.

"Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the festival--with no one to hear," he added significantly.

The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed.

The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. "Nein," he said.

"It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you before--when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come." He put aside the youth's impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the wall he slipped back a panel.

The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he turned, the old man was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle.

The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pus.h.i.+ng back the sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell forward on his hands. The hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the master was old. Sixty years--seventy--ah, more than seventy. Nine years ago he was that--at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap.

Seventy-nine--an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the keys. It was a n.o.ble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now and then.

But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power.

The boy's heart went from him.... If he might but touch a fold of the faded gown--seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring was about him--white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth.