The Cremona Violin poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry

Part First

Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.

A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind

Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before

Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind

The distant town was black, and sharp defined

Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,

Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

A pasted city on a purple ground,

Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud

Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound

Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,

Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud

Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.

Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

She bustled round to shake by constant moving

The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,

She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving

Its careful setting, then her own attire

Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher

She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting

A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

This way or that to suit her. At last sitting,

Or rather plumping down upon a chair,

She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,

And watched the rain upon the window glare

In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare

Of lightning squirmed about her needles. “Oh!”

She cried. “What can be keeping Theodore so!”

A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.

Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,

Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping

She stood and gazed along the street. A man

Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran

Her down as she stood in the door. “Why, Dear,

What in the name of patience brings you here?

Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin

I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.

This clasp is very much too worn and thin.

I’ll take the other fiddle out to-night

If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you’re quite

Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I –

Give me the candle. No, the inside’s dry.

Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you?

A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.

Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I’ll have a few

Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.

What do you say? That you were feared for me?

Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don’t talk.

I need a rest, the theatre’s a long walk.”

Her needles still, her hands upon her lap

Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat

And watched the rain-run window. In his nap

Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that,

Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,

Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room

Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.

But even rainy windows, silver-lit

By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give

But poor content to loneliness, and it

Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive

And down her eagerness and learn to live

In placid quiet. While her husband slept,

Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.

Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man

Gentle and unambitious, that alone

Had kept him back. He played as few men can,

Drawing out of his instrument a tone

So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone

Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,

Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.

Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,

Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine

Cremona pattern, Stradivari’s life

Was flowering out of early discipline

When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine

The belly was. The back of broadly curled

Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.

The slanting, youthful sound-holes through

The belly of fine, vigorous pine

Mellowed each note and blew

It out again with a woody flavour

Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are

When breezes in their needles jar.

The varnish was an orange-brown

Lustered like glass that’s long laid down

Under a crumbling villa stone.

Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point

Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint

Clear, and bold, and thin.

Such was Herr Theodore’s violin.

Seven o’clock, the Concert-Meister gone

With his best violin, the rain being stopped,

Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone

Watching the embers which the fire dropped.

The china shone upon the dresser, topped

By polished copper vessels which her skill

Kept brightly burnished. It was very still.

An air from `Orfeo’ hummed in her head.

Herr Altgelt had been practising before

The night’s performance. Charlotta had plead

With him to stay with her. Even at the door

She’d begged him not to go. “I do implore

You for this evening, Theodore,” she had said.

“Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead.”

“A silly poppet!” Theodore pinched her ear.

“You’d like to have our good Elector turn

Me out I think.” “But, Theodore, something queer

Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn,

My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You’re stern,

And cold, and only love your work, I know.

But Theodore, for this evening, do not go.”

But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,

For she had kept him talking. Now she sat

Alone again, always alone, the trend

Of all her thinking brought her back to that

She wished to banish. What would life be? What?

For she was young, and loved, while he was moved

Only by music. Each day that was proved.

Each day he rose and practised. While he played,

She stopped her work and listened, and her heart

Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed

And longing, she would hide from him her smart.

“Well, Lottchen, will that do?” Then what a start

She gave, and she would run to him and cry,

And he would gently chide her, “Fie, Dear, fie.

I’m glad I played it well. But such a taking!

You’ll hear the thing enough before I’ve done.”

And she would draw away from him, still shaking.

Had he but guessed she was another one,

Another violin. Her strings were aching,

Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again

He played and she almost broke at the strain.

Where was the use of thinking of it now,

Sitting alone and listening to the clock!

She’d best make haste and knit another row.

Three hours at least must pass before his knock

Would startle her. It always was a shock.

She listened – listened – for so long before,

That when it came her hearing almost tore.

She caught herself just starting in to listen.

What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks!

She wandered to the window, for the glisten

Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks

Of her two candles. Still she could not fix

To anything. The moon in a broad swath

Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.

Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high

And black, their shadows doubling them. The night

Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh

Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight

Of insects, and the smell of aconite,

And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted

Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted

The even flags. She let herself go dreaming

Of Theodore her husband, and the tune

From `Orfeo’ swam through her mind, but seeming

Changed – shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon

Showed her a passer-by, inopportune

Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.

Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.

“The best laid plans of mice and men,” alas!

The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.

Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,

Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta’s state,

Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,

Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed,

And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.

He seemed a proper fellow standing there

In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced

With silver, and he wore his own brown hair

Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced

A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased

Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position

Was hardly easy. When would his volition

Suggest his walking on? And then that tune!

A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo’

Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune

Had brought him there to stare about him so?

“Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!”

Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,

And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.

Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,

Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.

If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes

Streamed over her. He would not care a fig,

He’d only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig

Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose

Amid her bushes. “Sir,” said she, “pray whose

Garden do you suppose you’re watching? Why

Do you stand there? I really must insist

Upon your leaving. ‘Tis unmannerly

To stay so long.” The young man gave a twist

And turned about, and in the amethyst

Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen

From the green bushes which had been her prison.

He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.

“Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea

I was not quite alone, and that is how

I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer

Impertinence. I thought no one was here,

And really gardens cry to be admired.

To-night especially it seemed required.

And may I beg to introduce myself?

Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?”

Charlotta told him. And the artful elf

Promptly exclaimed about her husband’s fame.

So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came

To conversation with him. When she went

Into the house, she found the evening spent.

Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,

With all excitement in him burned away.

It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,

And he had played his very best to-day,

But afterwards he had been forced to stay

And practise with the stupid ones. His head

Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.

Part Second

Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played,

And the four strings of his violin

Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring.

The notes rose into the wide sun-mote

Which slanted through the window,

They lay like coloured beads a-row,

They knocked together and parted,

And started to dance,

Skipping, tripping, each one slipping

Under and over the others so

That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance

Or a comet’s tail,

Behind them.

Then a wail arose – crescendo –

And dropped from off the end of the bow,

And the dancing stopped.

A scent of lilies filled the room,

Long and slow. Each large white bloom

Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer,

And the hum of an organ tone,

And they waved like fans in a hall of stone

Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone.

Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.

Like smoke they rose from the violin –

Then faded as a swifter bowing

Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing

In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion

Between broad meadows to an ocean

Wide as a day and blue as a flower,

Where every hour

Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed,

And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,

And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered

With spray.

And away a couple of frigates were starting

To race to Java with all sails set,

Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,

And wide moonsails; and the shining rails

Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun.

All the sails went up with a run:

“They call me Hanging Johnny,

Away-i-oh;

They call me Hanging Johnny,

So hang, boys, hang.”

And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,

And the ship heeled over to the breeze.

He drew her into the shade of the sails,

And whispered tales

Of voyages in the China seas,

And his arm around her

Held and bound her.

She almost swooned,

With the breeze and the moon

And the slipping sea,

And he beside her,

Touching her, leaning –

The ship careening,

With the white moon steadily shining over

Her and her lover,

Theodore, still her lover!

Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes,

And slowly floated

A single note which spread and spread

Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,

And noises shivered throughout its length,

And tried its strength.

They pulled it, and tore it,

And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it.

Then a wide rent

Split the arching tent,

And balls of fire spurted through,

Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.

One by one they were quenched as they fell,

Only the blue burned steadily.

Paler and paler it grew, and – faded – away.

Herr Altgelt stopped.

“Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?

I think I’m in good trim. Now let’s have dinner.

What’s this, my Love, you’re very sweet to-day.

I wonder how it happens I’m the winner

Of so much sweetness. But I think you’re thinner;

You’re like a bag of feathers on my knee.

Why, Lotta child, you’re almost strangling me.

I’m glad you’re going out this afternoon.

The days are getting short, and I’m so tied

At the Court Theatre my poor little bride

Has not much junketing I fear, but soon

I’ll ask our manager to grant a boon.

To-night, perhaps, I’ll get a pass for you,

And when I go, why Lotta can come too.

Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup

To whip me up till that rehearsal’s over.

You know it’s odd how some women can stoop!

Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,

A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover

If it’s his money. But she lives alone

Practically. Gebnitz is a stone,

Pores over books all day, and has no ear

For his wife’s singing. Artists must have men;

They need appreciation. But it’s queer

What messes people make of their lives, when

They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then

His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once.

I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce.”

Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went

Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind

Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent,

Audacious wind it was, now close behind,

Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined

The strings across her face, then from in front

Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt,

Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,

Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound

Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing

Itself upon her, so that she was wound

In draperies as clinging as those found

Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze

Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze

The shops and houses had a quality

Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp

And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.

The city streets were twanging like a harp.

Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly

She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing

Toward what destination she was going.

She fetched up opposite a jeweller’s shop,

Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns,

And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop

And then float up again with lightness. Browns

Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns

Amid the gaiety of topaz seals,

Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels.

A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard

Delighted her. And rings of every size

Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes,

Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred

To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred

Like rockets bursting on a festal day.

Charlotta could not tear herself away.

With eyes glued tightly on a golden box,

Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue,

Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks

Of shades and lustres always darting through

Its level, superimposing sheet of blue,

Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching.

She started at the words: “Am I encroaching?”

“Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought

We were to meet at three, is it quite that?”

“No, it is not,” he answered, “but I’ve caught

The trick of missing you. One thing is flat,

I cannot go on this way. Life is what

Might best be conjured up by the word: `Hell’.

Dearest, when will you come?” Lotta, to quell

His effervescence, pointed to the gems

Within the window, asked him to admire

A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems

Uneasily the burning of a fire.

Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire.

Little by little she wooed him to her mood

Until at last he promised to be good.

But here he started on another tack;

To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose.

She vainly urged against him all her lack

Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use

A ring or brooch her husband might accuse

Her of extravagance, and ask to see

A strict accounting, or still worse might be.

But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why

Should he not give her what he liked? And in

He went, determined certainly to buy

A thing so beautiful that it would win

Her wavering fancy. Altgelt’s violin

He would outscore by such a handsome jewel

That Lotta could no longer be so cruel!

Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways.

If she went in with him, the shopman might

Recognize her, give her her name; in days

To come he could denounce her. In her fright

She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite

Capable of pursuing. By and by

She pushed the door and entered hurriedly.

It took some pains to keep him from bestowing

A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses,

The setting twined to represent the growing

Tendrils and leaves, upon her. “Who supposes

I could obtain such things! It simply closes

All comfort for me.” So he changed his mind

And bought as slight a gift as he could find.

A locket, frosted over with seed pearls,

Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck,

Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls

Should lie in it. And further to bedeck

His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck,

The merest puff of a thin, linked chain

To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain

From weeping as they sauntered down the street.

She did not want the locket, yet she did.

To have him love her she found very sweet,

But it is hard to keep love always hid.

Then there was something in her heart which chid

Her, told her she loved Theodore in him,

That all these meetings were a foolish whim.

She thought of Theodore and the life they led,

So near together, but so little mingled.

The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead,

And the fresh wind about her body tingled;

The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled;

Charlotta held her breath for very fear,

About her in the street she seemed to hear:

“They call me Hanging Johnny,

Away-i-oh;

They call me Hanging Johnny,

So hang, boys, hang.”

And it was Theodore, under the racing skies,

Who held her and who whispered in her ear.

She knew her heart was telling her no lies,

Beating and hammering. He was so dear,

The touch of him would send her in a queer

Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning

For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning

Street after street as Heinrich wished it so.

He had some aim, she had forgotten what.

Their progress was confused and very slow,

But at the last they reached a lonely spot,

A garden far above the highest shot

Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town

Spread open like a chequer-board laid down.

Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest,

Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain

About her neck. She treated it in jest,

And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain.

Then suddenly she felt as though a strain

Were put upon her, collared like a slave,

Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave.

She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands

To snap it, but they held with odd persistence.

Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands

Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance

Melted within her, from remotest distance,

Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near,

And giving way she knew him very dear.

For long he held her, and they both gazed down

At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river.

From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown

Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver

Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver

When, opening the locket, they were placed

Under the glass, commingled and enlaced.

“When will you have it so with us?” He sighed.

She shook her head. He pressed her further. “No,

No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me,” and she tried

To free herself and rise. He held her so,

Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go.

“But you love me,” he whispered, with his face

Burning against her through her kerchief’s lace.

Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew

That what her husband lit this other man

Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few

Women were so discreet as she, who ran

No danger since she knew what things to ban.

She opened her house door at five o’clock,

A short half-hour before her husband’s knock.

Part Third

The `Residenz-Theater’ sparked and hummed

With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing,

That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed

With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring

Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting

Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting

From muffled tympani made a dark slatting

Across the silver shimmering of flutes;

A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed;

The ‘celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes,

And mutterings of double basses trailed

Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed

Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter

They lost themselves amid the general clatter.

Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone,

Felt lifted up into another world.

Before her eyes a thousand candles shone

In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled

And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled.

She smelt the smoke of candles guttering,

And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering

All round her in the boxes. Red and gold,

The house, like rubies set in filigree,

Filliped the candlelight about, and bold

Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly

Ogled fair beauties in the balcony.

An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling.

Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling

About a play-bill he had bought and lost.

Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected.

Frau Altgelt’s eyes stared at the vacant post

Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected

The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected

When with no glance about him or her way,

He lifted up his violin to play.

The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so,

Charlotta never saw it go.

The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz’ singing

Only came to her like the ringing

Of bells at a festa

Which swing in the air

And nobody realizes they are there.

They jingle and jangle,

And clang, and bang,

And never a soul could tell whether they rang,

For the plopping of guns and rockets

And the chinking of silver to spend, in one’s pockets,

And the shuffling and clapping of feet,

And the loud flapping

Of flags, with the drums,

As the military comes.

It’s a famous tune to walk to,

And I wonder where they’re off to.

Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums.

But the rhythm changes as though a mist

Were curling and twisting

Over the landscape.

For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog

Encompasses her. Then her senses jog

To the breath of a stately minuet.

Herr Altgelt’s violin is set

In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances,

To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances.

Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights

When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights

Blundering insects knock,

And the `Rathaus’ clock

Booms twice, through the shrill sounds

Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds.

Pressed against him in the mazy wavering

Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering

She leans upon the beating, throbbing

Music. Laughing, sobbing,

Feet gliding after sliding feet;

His – hers –

The ballroom blurs –

She feels the air

Lifting her hair,

And the lapping of water on the stone stair.

He is there! He is there!

Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins,

That the dancers may dance, and never discover

The old stone stair leading down to the river

With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over

Her and her lover.

Theodore, still her lover!

The evening passed like this, in a half faint,

Delirium with waking intervals

Which were the entr’acts. Under the restraint

Of a large company, the constant calls

For oranges or syrops from the stalls

Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro,

Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito.

She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded,

The music vaunted as most excellent.

The scenery and the costumes were applauded,

The latter it was whispered had been sent

From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent

A fortune on them, so the gossips said.

Charlotta felt a lightness in her head.

When the next act began, her eyes were swimming,

Her prodded ears were aching and confused.

The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming

Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused

Into the music, Theodore’s music! Used

To hear him play, she caught his single tone.

For all she noticed they two were alone.

Part Fourth

Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street,

Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down

Shouting their coachmen’s names; forced to retreat

A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown

Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown

The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes

Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise.

Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm,

Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman

And ordered off. However, no great harm

Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan

When Theodore, her belated guardian,

Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling,

Half out of fear, half out of the assembling

Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given.

Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know.

“Oh! Theodore, can’t you feel that it was Heaven!”

“Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so?

Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow

Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops,

A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops.”

He was so simple, so matter-of-fact,

Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say

To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact

Kept him explaining all the homeward way

How this thing had gone well, that badly. “Stay,

Theodore!” she cried at last. “You know to me

Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy.”

And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed

Herself so much, and said so. “But it’s good

To be got home again.” He was employed

In looking at his violin, the wood

Was old, and evening air did it no good.

But when he drew up to the table for tea

Something about his wife’s vivacity

Struck him as hectic, worried him in short.

He talked of this and that but watched her close.

Tea over, he endeavoured to extort

The cause of her excitement. She arose

And stood beside him, trying to compose

Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life,

And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife.

Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp,

Her music-kindled love crashed on him there.

Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp

Her arms about him, weighing down his chair,

Sobbing out all her hours of despair.

“Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved.

Unless you tell me, I feel I’m not loved.”

Theodore went under in this tearing wave,

He yielded to it, and its headlong flow

Filled him with all the energy she gave.

He was a youth again, and this bright glow,

This living, vivid joy he had to show

Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying,

She asked assurances there’s no denying.

Over and over again her questions, till

He quite convinced her, every now and then

She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still.

But later when they were composed and when

She dared relax her probings, “Lottachen,”

He asked, “how is it your love has withstood

My inadvertence? I was made of wood.”

She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly,

That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky

To her. And even if conscience were unruly

She salved it by neat sophistries, but why

Suppose her insincere, it was no lie

She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot

As though he’d never been within earshot.

But Theodore’s hands in straying and caressing

Fumbled against the locket where it lay

Upon her neck. “What is this thing I’m pressing?”

He asked. “Let’s bring it to the light of day.”

He lifted up the locket. “It should stay

Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste.

To keep it hidden surely is a waste.”

Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused

Out of her happiness. The locket brought

A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused

Under its icy spurting she was caught,

And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought

The clasp, but with such art was this contrived

Her fumbling fingers never once arrived

Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round,

She pulled the chain quite through the locket’s ring

And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound,

Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing

To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string

Binding her folly to her, and those curls

Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls!

Again she tried to break the cord. It stood.

“Unclasp it, Theodore,” she begged. But he

Refused, and being in a happy mood,

Twitted her with her inefficiency,

Then looking at her very seriously:

“I think, Charlotta, it is well to have

Always about one what a mother gave.

As she has taken the great pains to send

This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be

Ingratitude if you do not intend

To carry it about you constantly.

With her fine taste you cannot disagree,

The locket is most beautifully designed.”

He opened it and there the curls were, twined.

Charlotta’s heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches.

She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze.

Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches,

She heard her husband asking: “What are those?”

Put out her hand quickly to interpose,

But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded

At the calm way the question was propounded.

“A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare.

Indeed I will not let you put it off.

A lovely thought: yours and your mother’s hair!”

Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough.

“Never with my connivance shall you doff

This charming gift.” He kissed her on the cheek,

And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek.

When later in their room she lay awake,

Watching the moonlight slip along the floor,

She felt the chain and wept for Theodore’s sake.

She had loved Heinrich also, and the core

Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore

She vowed from now to break this double life

And see herself only as Theodore’s wife.

Part Fifth

It was no easy matter to convince

Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say

That though they could not meet (he saw her wince)

She still must keep the locket to allay

Suspicion in her husband. She would pay

Him from her savings bit by bit – the oath

He swore at that was startling to them both.

Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt

Adhered to it, and suffered no regret.

She found her husband all that she had felt

His music to contain. Her days were set

In his as though she were an amulet

Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining;

Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining.

Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks

Were furbished up to seem like rituals.

She baked and brewed as one who only asks

The right to serve. Her daily manuals

Of prayer were duties, and her festivals

When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said

She had a knack in making up a bed.

So Autumn went, and all the mountains round

The city glittered white with fallen snow,

For it was Winter. Over the hard ground

Herr Altgelt’s footsteps came, each one a blow.

On the swept flags behind the currant row

Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip

Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership

Was first again. This evening he had got

Important news. The opera ordered from

Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot,

The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come

Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot

From copying, had been tried over. Never

Had 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 course

Of Carnival time. In what utter shade

All other cities would be left! The trade

In music would all drift here naturally.

In his excitement he forgot his tea.

Lotta was forced to take his cup and put

It in his hand. But still he rattled on,

Sipping at intervals. The new catgut

Strings he was using gave out such a tone

The “Maestro” had remarked it, and had gone

Out 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 first

Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore

Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst

Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst;

That his short interest in her was a light

Flared 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 came

Home for his tea, and it was very late,

Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state

Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin

Is thin with pulling, and all dented in.

He practised every morning and her heart

Followed 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 bit

Of 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 take

Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged

Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take

Her 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 met

Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by.

Nor how the following week he stood to let

Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly.

How once he took her basket, and once he

Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck

Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck

How many times their business took them each

Right to the other. Then at last he spoke,

But she would only nod, he got no speech

From her. Next time he treated it in joke,

And that so lightly that her vow she broke

And answered. So they drifted into seeing

Each other as before. There was no fleeing.

Christmas was over and the Carnival

Was very near, and tripping from each tongue

Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall

Flaunted 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 will

And Heinrich’s. ‘Twixt her love for Theodore

And him. Sometimes she wished to kill

Herself to solve her problem. For a score

Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore

Her moods with patience, and so surely urged

Himself upon her, she was slowly merged

Into his way of thinking, and to fly

With him seemed easy. But next morning would

The Stradivarius undo her mood.

Then she would realize that she must cleave

Always to Theodore. And she would try

To convince Heinrich she should never leave,

And afterwards she would go home and grieve.

All thought in Munich centered on the part

Of January when there would be given

`Idomeneo’ by Wolfgang Mozart.

The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even

Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven

Behind the highest gallery, were sold.

The inches of the theatre went for gold.

Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin

With work, he hardly printed black behind

The candle. He and his old violin

Made up one person. He was not unkind,

But dazed outside his playing, and the rind,

The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded

A 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 shone

Upon her sitting there, alone.

For Theodore slept.

The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day,

‘Twas called for noon, so early morning meant

Herr Altgelt’s only time in which to play

His part alone. Drawn like a monk who’s spent

Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went

Into the kitchen, with a weary word

Of 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 span

Of a white road snaking about a hill.

The orchards are filled

With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise.

Hawthorn buds are cracking,

And in the distance a shepherd is clacking

His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep.

The notes are asleep,

Lying adrift on the air

In level lines

Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines,

Strung and threaded,

All imbedded

In the blue-green of the hazy pines.

Lines – long, straight lines!

And stems,

Long, straight stems

Pushing up

To the cup of blue, blue sky.

Stems growing misty

With the many of them,

Red-green mist

Of the trees,

And these

Wood-flavoured notes.

The back is maple and the belly is pine.

The rich notes twine

As though weaving in and out of leaves,

Broad leaves

Flapping slowly like elephants’ ears,

Waving and falling.

Another sound peers

Through 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, tumultuous

With song.

The woodpecker knocks,

And the song-sparrow trills,

Every fir, and cedar, and yew

Has a nest or a bird,

It is quite absurd

To hear them cutting across each other:

Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once,

And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother

A 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 toss

And 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 dashing

Over 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 over

Her and her lover.

Almost swooning

Under the ballooning canvas,

She lies

Looking up in his eyes

As 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 brands

Burning upon his music. He stopped short.

Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands

Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart,

Her fingers touched the locket with a start.

Herr Altgelt put his violin away

Listlessly. “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 best

If I am quiet till I go.” And lest

She disobey, he left her. On the stairs

She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers!

He could not hear, he was not there, for she

Was married to a mummy, a machine.

Her hand closed on the locket bitterly.

Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen

Case of his violin. She saw the clean

Sun flash the open clasp. The locket’s edge

Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge.

A heavy cart went by, a distant bell

Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate.

She was alone. Her throat began to swell

With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait?

The violin she had begun to hate

Lay in its case before her. Here she flung

The cover open. With the fiddle swung

Over her head, the hanging clock’s loud ticking

Caught on her ear. ‘Twas slow, and as she paused

The little door in it came open, flicking

A wooden cuckoo out: “Cuckoo!” It caused

The 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.