The Sun and The Rainbow

The Hero

AN EPISODE OF THE EIGHTEEN-SEVENTIES

A SHORT STORY

Quiet, to a musician, is not relief from sound; it is only a chance to make him listen better to the voice of his art. Andre Chaudanson found night the happiest time, for he could then concentrate most intently on the sounds that rose and fell continually through his mind. And on this particular night he listened more intently than ever because he felt the sorest need of soothing harmonies. Life was breaking up all around him; discords were written on the face of every man he met. The Prussians were reported to be less than thirty miles from the town where he lived. Any moment the tide of war might sweep towards the inhabitants of Rocheville and submerge the slow sweet routines of peace. Hitherto the red waves had boomed elsewhere, but a sudden contretemps had turned them south to Rouen and if the little army opposing them failed to stem the rush, there would be Uhlans galloping through the streets and German gutturals and polysyllables shattering the air of Gallic grace which played round the thoughts and emotions of Rocheville.

Andre kept on his piano a picture of his Master, and before composing anything he would gaze a long time into those eyes of deep fire and at that brow at once narrow and high which spoke the pure intensity of the soul of Rene de Bourneval. Surely that face had seen a glory beyond our world; and why should he, Andre, doubt It who had watched

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the Master at work and marvelled at that religious passion of his which made the white hair look like a halo over his head. It was not only music that bound Andre to his Master; it was the particular glow of the Beyond, the far-away note, in the music. He himself had striven to keep the same note sounding in his own work, so that his music might have the distance of a deep slumber as well as the immediacy of a tremendous hand stretched across that distance to touch the hearts of men and guide them towards some great living peace. And now when two nations were at bitter strife, peace was indeed a thing to be desired. So Andre gazed and gazed at the picture, praying for inspiration.

He imagined the face in front of him to be full of a slow movement, alive with intimate expression conveying to him what he should put into his music. He thought the eyes shifted gently upwards, and with that motion something in Andre seemed to pierce a veil of silence extended infinitely above his head, and through the rent in that veil he felt a thin light stream down. With a start he looked up: it was only the skylight letting in from the roof the rays of the moon that had climbed high over the housetops of Rocheville. But how could he have felt that moonlight? It flowed in a line behind his book and he had not caught any reflection of it in his eyes. Strange that he should have had that luminous feeling and the moon should have just thrown a thin silver thread through the skylight. There was indeed the candle burning before him but its flicker could not have caused the faint tremble of white fire above his head. What blending of the occult and the natural was here — experienced by him as though through his Master's eyes? Anyway, it was no use keeping the candle burning now that the moon was gradually beautifying the room. Andre blew out the delicate cone that had kept a wavering play of gleam and shade over the Master's picture; but with the puff with which he blew it out he breathed a spontaneous sigh — an unconscious self-expression, but no sooner had it escaped him than a far music floated to his ears in answer to

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his yearning and seemed to pass across his face, as it were, fluttering his eyelids, caressing his nostrils with a strange fragrance, curving his mouth into a mysterious smile — until a flame possessed his brain, thrilled through his nerves and the hands ran up and down the keyboard.

There was a tinkle of bells and there was the rush of a mighty wind, both almost combined as if a tempest had set dancing an innumerable carillon. But the tempest itself, as it swept again and again round that invisible belfry, became a giant tune — so immense that Andre feared his piano might burst with that endless sonority. What puzzled him was that the ringing of bells persisted in spite of the large music and it was a steady unvarying sweetness, a centre to the changing and sweeping glory and rapture. Then his fingers leaped and glided through a more subdued pattern of sound, yet in and out of the controlled harmony the old energy moved until there appeared to be no need any more for power to hurl itself gorgeously at some intractable enemy and a restrained richness swayed like some virgin goddess through the room, all her body a multiform moonlit message of pure peace. Suddenly Andre stopped; an ominous thud came from afar — another — still one more — and he was on his feet. A scurrying of steps led to his door and his wife rushed in.

"Oh Andre, Jacques just came to say that our gallant men have lost. We're at the mercy of the enemy. What shall we do?"

"Be at rest, my treasure. Whatever happens, no harm can befall you."

"Jacques also says the whole town is astir to put up a defence."

"That would be extraordinary! We'd be the first to bring a civilian force — a step of men brave indeed. All my sympathy is with them. But I must have a short spell of leisure before it's too late. Leave me a while, and I'll be down with you presently."

She left. Andre took out his blank sheets of paper and

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scribbled hastily. The music was still fresh in his ears; he wrote for nearly an hour, adding as he went along, pursuing further in his mind strains he had been too excited to capture wholly; but he felt that what he had got was only a fragment — greater revelations, more powerful enchantments were to come; for he had echoed but the first few footfalls of some divine peace harmonising the life of the earth — the peace he had invoked in face of the ruin that threatened the town. There was too much noise and confusion in the rest of the house and in the street. The whole town was up; men were shouting, women talked shrilly, and repeated calls reached him from below. He got up and went to meet the general clamour.

"If s unavoidable!" A chorus of voices enveloped him. "We must fight — they are within a few miles. The barricades are already raised. Not an inch of French soil will be surrendered without being soaked in our blood. But what about our families? There's no time for them to fly."

"We don't care," cried Andre's own wife. "We shall stand beside you. But don't let the Prussians mock at us as at cowards."

Andre was surprised at the fierce energy shown by his pretty little wife. He was a gentle citizen, he had never been a fighter, but the defiant note in the woman's voice stirred him. Yes, manhood must be upheld. Let them not take the citizens like rabbits; they will have to march over the murdered body of a heroic resistance. Most of the citizens already carried pistols and rifles. Andre walked back to his house, and pulled down from the wall his gun, opened the breech and started loading it. Then he carried the fire-arm upstairs to his music-room. The piano stood invitingly, his dear companion; he laid the gun aside, went to the still unshut keyboard, let his fingers drag lovingly over the ivories; a sudden tremor ran through his frame-and he heard music again. A shout of joy escaped him as he darted to his stool and sat — but no! he wouldn't play: how could he? All the same, there was no harm in recording as rapidly and as quietly as he could the

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in-flowing harmonies. So he picked up the score-sheets he had cast off and began writing; but before he had gone a couple of lines forward he felt guilty. Was this the time to waste on art? His fellows were preparing to face" death. What if the Prussians were known not to molest anybody who offered no resistance? He could not stick at home and let others fight: his manhood was greater than his art... But he hated killing; he had never indulged even in shooting birds, he had been almost squeamish about these things. He felt terribly perplexed. Flinging away his papers, he fell on his knees. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he spoke, slowly and with deep resolution: "Holy Spirit, ruler of this world — Spirit to whom I have prayed for peace — here I kneel before you, offering up my life at the altar of that Conscience which you have planted in me. if your voice there points me to the battle-field, I will not hang back. Bring out the hero hidden in me as in each man — slay my personal fears, my personal attachments. Let me serve you alone. I have prayed for peace, and 1 will not shrink when you offer me the peace of the grave."

The door flung open and his wife sank beside him: "Oh Andre, my hero, I have heard you. But forgive me for being weak. Stay back, do not go: I have your child in me — and who shall protect me if you die? 1 spoke rashly in the street."

"Would my child like to know that its father was a coward?"

Josephine was silent.

"Besides, you will not starve, my dear. Your father has enough to keep you happily."

"Happily? How shall I live without you? It is not starvation I dread. Why are you so cruel?"

"Why count on my death?" And yet he knew that short of death there was no issue out of the problem — none save, shirking the problem altogether. Men were aware of his frail health; they would not mind if he kept back with his wife and her aged father. But he could not: his health was after all not so broken really as to excuse him at this critical hour; all the

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fibres of his manhood protested.

He got up from his knees, took his gun and led his wife downstairs. When he made his appearance outside, his thin hands holding the rifle all the men shouted "Bravo!" and came and slapped him with a rough affection on his shoulders. But it was not for their praise that he was giving the sacrifice.

*

A week later, an old man was on his way to Rocheville. He reached it towards nightfall, much hampered on the route by Prussian officials who held up the train often to inspect the passengers. Here in the town, however, there were only a few of the enemy left, as after capturing it and shooting many of the surviving civilian fighters they had surged onward in a westerly direction. Hardly anybody knew who the old man was. Some months ago he had visited the place and a number of interested youths had clustered round him, but those youths were to be seen no more. And because Andre was one of them the Master had come down from Paris to collect whatever he could of his pupil's papers and to console the young widow.

She was sitting beside her father, near the fire. On seeing Rene de Bourneval through the window, she rushed to the door.

"Oh my friend, you've come! But poor Andre! How happy he would have been. Andre my hero."

And then the whole pathetic story was related. How his wife had overheard his prayer, that heart-rending self-dedication. Then the fight in the streets and the supreme courage displayed by the weak musician. He was among the first to meet the Uhlans. His comrades had wavered a moment at sight of the overwhelming numbers against them, and Andre had jumped forward, calling on them to follow. The scuffle had been short but fierce. Andre was struck down; yet his example had put miraculous valour into his friends and they had fought desperately. Even the Prussians remarked, later,

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on the recklessness with which the men had given battle. And special consideration was shown towards the young widow of that fair-haired and frail berserk who had led the charge. It was a great honour that even an enemy reputed to be brutal had shown chivalrous appreciation.

As the story proceeded, two or three wounded men joined the group and added their testimony to the dead musician's boldness. One of them who had evidently heard about that last prayer remarked:

"He had the soul to live music, not only write it. He moved to his death to the glorious harmony of rifle shots. Admirable I call it. Man who knew the voice of God in his conscience!"

The Master kept silent. Words of consolation failed him. When the talk was over, he expressed a wish to see his dear pupil's papers. "Here they are, sir," cried Josephine. "I have tied them up carefully; they contain the last thing he composed; he was disturbed in the middle of it by the guns."

The Master opened the roll and glanced at the last sheets; his face lit up. "Where is the piano?" he asked, but now in tones almost threatening. Josephine, a little frightened, led him upstairs. He sat and played the unfinished piece. Once more the unearthly bells and the storm of music; once more the controlled cadences and the paths of peace. The old man got up, trembling — kept a check upon his features and insisted on leaving. "I'll come back," he said, "I want to breathe the open air."

Out into the darkness he walked. Across the streets he went into the clear night of the adjoining fields. And there he stood, his face buried in his hands. Tears rolled down through his fingers. Like a child he wept. Then in the midst of those tears a great fury broke from his lips.

"Fool! Imbecile! To think that he could serve God by heroism. Who ever created him to be a hero? Thousands of men can fight — not one in a thousand can produce masterpieces of music — and he sacrificed himself to the ideal of manhood just to please his petty conscience, when he was made

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the receptacle of God's rarest gift —- that superhuman gift — genius! Sot with the mind of a genius and the conscience of a paltry patriot. Waster, disgusting traitor to God, coward enough not to be able to resist his third-rate conscience and serve the Divine. Hero forsooth! Bah..."

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