The Overture

THE OVERTURE By Fred McLaughlin Mrs. Templcton was young at forty-five, with cool blue eyes and shining brown hair that showed slight touches of gray. A calm, serene beauty enfolded her like an ennobling garment. The eyes of Leontine, a slim, dreamy girl of eleven, were blue also, but it was the blue of a transparent sky. Lorry, twenty, displayed the lithe, grace- ful lines of an athlete, but the pallor of an ascetic. He had deep, tender eyes, and the long, sensitive fingers of an artist. Lastly, Mr. Templeton, who was fifty and looked seventy, had thinning white hair, pale, empty, inefficient eyes, and bloodless, useless hands that caressed his scant gray Vandyke with palsied uncertainty. The table linen, though spotless, showed signs of many mendings; a few graceful, red dahlias stood in a narrow vase, and the food upon the table was plain to a point of dangerous abstinence. "I'm sorry, Mother," said Lorry gently, "Mr. Bolkhov didn't seem to want me." "You played for him, dear;" questioned his mother; "surely you play well enough for his orchestra?" "I'm certain of it. He gave me a chance, though. He loves Russian compositions1 — naturally. He asked me to play one I'd never played, one of Tchaikovsky's, and I did it rather badly." Mrs. Templeton was silent. "Perhaps I was a bit over-anxious," continued the young man, "a little nervous." "Perhaps Mr. Bolkhov expected too much, dear," said his mother. "It would have paid a hundred and fifty each month," mused Lorry, "for evening work only, and I could have continued my music course." "Maybe you can continue it anyway." The boy looked around at the naked necessities of their home. "No, Mother, you have sacrificed too much already." "It has all been a labor of love, dear." Lorry shook his head. "Some day, Lorry," urged Mrs. Templeton, "you will be a great pianist — or a great director — like your father." She talked past the feeble old man as if he were not present, but when she looked at him her eyes were warm and tender with love. "He came so near — so very near." Lorry remembered how near. The picture in all its vividness came back to him. He had been in a box with his beautiful mother, while his father, a man young at forty — trim, dark-haired, magnetic — had stood on the flower-bedecked stage and had brought forth from the instruments of his adoring orchestra, by the seeming magic of his waving, ebony wand, divine melodies which had held spellbound the massed humanity in the vast auditorium. His father had bowed as

THE OVERTURE * 1021 wave after wave of tumultuous applause swept over the assemblage. He had raised his head and found the eyes of his wife, eyes that were shining with tears. Lorry remembered even now how the music had stirred his soul; had lifted him, in imagination, to the glorious stars; and in his boyish heart he had determined that some day he would bring forth such soul-stirring, heart-filling melodies. His father had turned again to his beloved orchestra; a beam of light had discovered, in the darkness behind the director, a sort of medallion, upon which had been printed, in fanciful letters, the title and the composer of the next selection: "1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky" The young man awoke from his reverie with a start. It was Tchaikovsky's Overture that Director Bolkhov had asked him to play. He had played it badly, and playing it badly, he had lost his chance to get a position in the orchestra. Strange . . . and his father long ago — He pictured his father again with his Aladdin wand, that night so long ago, and he heard again the opening notes of that transcendent Overture. As he had caught the movements in the musical epic, he had felt again the fear, the confusion of the Russian people at the approach of Napoleon's army. While the great human drama had opened before him he remembered that — suddenly — the stage with its flowers and its crescent orchestra, the central, single figure, the vast, silent, rapt audience, and even the flowing lines of the auditorium itself had wavered and dimmed and disappeared in a blinding mist of tears. Happy and sobbing he had taken the music into his very soul. With the sonorous notes of the Russian Anthem still sounding in his ears there had come a sudden, terrifying discordance, a crashing medley of noise, and, having dashed the tears from his eyes, he had seen his father lying prostrate before the stunned, silent musicians. Some people had applauded, some had screamed, had roared com- mands, curses. The multitude had arisen and made for the stage. The young man pictured next the long illness of his father; the rapidly graying hair, the dimming eyes, the faltering step, the palsied movements of his magic hands, and the narrowing, stooping shoulders that bowed his fine head ever toward the waiting earth. Now it was Leontine, the child, who led him around; Leontine who played with him. The motherly care she took of him was a beautiful thing to see, for the stroke which had taken his strength and his music had taken half his mind. With Leontine beside him he would sit at the piano, a rapt light in his pale eyes, and run his aim- less, useless fingers over the keys, making music that a child of three might make. Lorry pushed a white hand through his thick, brown hair. "I'm

1022 IMPROVEMENT ERA going to chuck it, Mother," he said; "I'm going to work, and quit the piano. You have given up too much already, you have sacrificed too much. I'm going to get a job, to buy some things for this little bungalow of ours. You — you need some pretty things, Mother God knows you deserve them, and you need some ease — and some happiness. I'm going to get them for you — all of them. I have failed." He saw the tears beginning to gather in her eyes, and he got up and put his arms around her and his cheek against her shining hair. "You haven't failed, Lorry," she said. "Just because you didn't play the — the Overture — " She held to his fingers. "I — I know so little about music, dear, and I have dreamed that you might some day take up where your father — " Mr. Templeton caught at a word and turned his face to his wife. "Did you say the Overture, dear?" he questioned. "Yes, honey," she said gently; "Mr. Bolkhov offered Lorry a position in his orchestra, and asked him to play the Overture as a trial." "The Overture?" The pale eyes brightened. "That will be Tchaikovsky. I — I used to play it, didn't I ... I used to play it, Leo — didn't I?" There was a -childlike eagerness in his voice. She nodded. "Yes, dear, you used to play it — beautifully!" "Shall I play it again for you, Leo ... do you want me to play it again?" He was trembling, and his thin fingers picked at the table-cloth. "I can play it, Leo." He hummed the first few opening notes in a grotesque, quavering voice. "That's the way it goes, Leo, dear; shall I play it for you?" His childish willingness and enthusiasm hurt her heart, and she remained silent. "Sure, Dad," said Lorry; "of course you can play it. We'd love to hear you. Go ahead." "Bless you," whispered his mother, holding his hand against her soft cheek; "bless you!" The prematurely old man got up slowly, with much difficulty. Leontine attempted to aid him, but was pushed gently away. "No, dear," he said; "Father is going to play ... to play the Over- ture of 1812. You need not help me this time, honey; another time we will play, you and I; but tonight — this still fine night, with the moon outside — I am going to play. You will hear me play, Leon- tine; and you, Leo, my dear; and Lorry, my son, you will hear me I am going to play for you." Mrs. Templeton sighed as the broken man, by aid of trembling hands on the narrow table, got finally to his feet. He reached the portieres and held to them for support. He looked back, a gentle, prophetic smile lighting his almost empty face. "You will hear me play," he said softly. "Wait . . . don't come near me." As they sat, listening, they heard his slow, shuffling feet moving across the living-room floor; they heard the sliding crunch of the piano

THE OVERTURE 1023 bench, and they waited^ — waited for the customary, senseless, music- less patter. At least five minutes passed before a sound came from the piano. They had risen, intending to come in and see if he had fallen asleep, but when the first few notes struck their ears they sat down again at the table, amazed, incredulous, disbelieving — awed, for the music that came from the room beyond was the music of a master. "Is it papa?" whispered Leontine. "See, honey," said Mrs. Templeton. Leontine tiptoed to the portieres and peeped through. She came back and stood beside her mother, fear and wonder written large in her eyes. The boy, his face transfigured, stared into the eyes of his mother. "My God," he gasped " — no man ever played it — like that! Tchaiko- vsky himself could not have dreamed that it would ever be played — like that! Listen, Mother; it's a story of Russia . . . Napoleon is coming, and the people are afraid. Can't you see them running around? Can't you hear them crying? There is no leader — they don't know what to do. Listen." A new note came into the music, a smooth, vibrant, strengthen- ing chord. Lorry's sensitive face lit up. "There he is, Mother — a leader. Now wait . . . See? The music is deeper, richer. Under authority they are working, they are preparing to meet the French. It's all so clear, Mother, and all so beautiful! Music is so much fuller than words!" The mother sat, as in a trance, listening to the father's music and listening also to the son's interpretation. "But he can't," she said; he hasn't played for ten years." "But he is, Mother." Lorry's fine eyes were shining. "It is a dream, Mother dear, or — or a miracle!" She raised her eyes. "I thank Thee," she said, softly reverent, "I thank Thee!" "Listen, Mother," whispered the young artist, his soul expand- ing to the vast musical epic that stretched out before them, his heart filled with the wonder of that matchless masterpiece. "Listen he is telling the story. Don't you hear the martial tread of armies, the rumble of cannon? The French are coming. Hear it, Mother? It's faint now — the Marseillaise . . . The French are coming!" The boy paused for breath. "Here they come! Hear the cannon, Mother, and the screams of horses; hear the small guns — and the groans of dying men? They are fighting, there's the clash of steel orders — commands. They are falling back, Mother — the Russians!" "Oh!" whispered his mother. "Wait — wait! The Marseillaise grows in volume — now the French soldiers yell. Hear the pounding of their horses' hoofs? They are winning. The fate of Russia hangs on this battle. They are hold- ing, they are fighting their last desperate battle. Do you hear that. Mother? The Russian Anthem . . . faint now — but wait.

1024 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Now the Marseillaise, but fainter — fainter and farther away. The French are moving back, the Russians are charging; hear the crashing shock of contact? There go the cannon — and the Marseillaise dies away. Hear the yelling — the wild maniacal shrieks of victory Now the Russian Anthem — louder, richer, more dominant now all the pandemonium noises of victory. They have won — and Napoleon has passed the zenith of his power! He has lost! He has spent the youth of France and gained nothing. "It is nearly finished now, Mother. Only the merry-making of the people over their deliverance — and it is done. Oh Mother, the marvel of his playing!" A vast stillness took possession of the house. Over the living- room, whence had come that wondrous epic of music, lay a silence more mysterious than the music itself. "I'm — I'm afraid," faltered Mrs. Templeton. Lorry led his mother into the living-room, where they found Mr. Templeton slumped forward against the piano, his feet sprawled, his shaking hands hanging limp and useless. They lifted him gently to his feet, and held him up and talked to him. He turned his empty face toward his wife. "Leo, darling," he whispered, "I've had a most wonderful — dream!" "Yes, dear," she said, her protecting arms around him. The doorbell rang, and Lorry ushered in a foreign-looking man, a slim, dignified man with a pointed, black beard, who blinked in the sudden light. , "Mother, this is Mr. Bolkhov." The tall maestro made a sweeping bow and Mother bent her pretty head. "And my father," continued Lorry, and Mr. Bolkhov bowed again. "You will pardon," he began " — but I was driving by, in the moonlight, and the music ... I could not refrain from stopping because of the music, for I think I have never heard the Overture played so — so divinely." He turned to the young man: "If you will per- mit me to reconsider my decision of this afternoon I shall be glad to offer you a position "Mr. Bolkhov, it was not I who played the Overture; it was my father." The Russian studied the stooped, fragile figure standing between Mrs. Templeton and Leontine. He could not fail to note the blank, expressionless face, the pale, aimless eyes, and the palsied uncertainty of gesture. "Droll," he said at last; "young man, you — " "My father played it," said Lorry simply. The maestro spread out his hands. "Will you accept a position as pianist in my orchestra?" "I shall be glad," said Lorry. Washington, D. C.