



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive







Transcriber's Note:
   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/storyageniusfro00lockgoog

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

   3. There are three stories included in this volume:

      (a) The Story of a Genius
      (b) The Nobl' Zwilk
      (c) What Happened to Holy Saint Pancras of Evolo




                                  THE

                           STORY OF A GENIUS



                           FROM THE GERMAN OF
                             OSSIP SCHUBIN



                              ENGLISHED BY
                             E. H. LOCKWOOD





                   R. F. FENNO & COMPANY: 9 and 11 E.
                   SIXTEENTH STREET    ::    NEW YORK
                                  1898






                            Copyright, 1898
                                   BY
                         R. F. FENNO & COMPANY






_The Story of a Genius_






                         The Story of a Genius




                                   I


Monsieur Alphonse de Sterny will come to Brussels in November and
conduct his Oratoria of "Satan."

This short notice in the _Independence Belge_ created a general
sensation. The musicians shrugged, bit their lips, and sneered about
the public's injustice toward home talent. The "great world,"--between
ourselves the most unmusical "world" in the universe,--very nearly
stepped out of its aristocratic apathy. This is something which seldom
happens to it in artistic matters, but now, for a whole week it talked
nothing but de Sterny: of his octave playing a little, and of his love
affairs a great deal. In autumn Brussels has so little to talk about!

Alphonse de Sterny had been in his day a great virtuoso and a social
lion. Reigning belles had contended for his favor; George Sand was said
to have written a book about him, nobody knew exactly which one; the
fair Princess G---- was supposed to have taken poison on his account.
But five years before the appearance of this notice in the
_Independence Belge_, de Sterny had suddenly withdrawn from the world.
During that time he had not given any concerts, nor had he produced any
new piano pieces, in his well-known style, paraphrases and fantasies on
favorite airs.

Now, for the first in that long interval his name emerged, and in
connection with an Oratorio!

De Sterny and an Oratorio!

The world found that a little odd. The artists thought it a great joke.




                                   II


It is November fifth, the day on which the first rehearsal of "Satan"
is to be held, under the composer's own direction.

In the concert hall of the "Grand Harmonic" the performers are already
assembled. In honor of the distinguished guest half a dozen more gas
jets are burning than is usual at rehearsals, yet the large hall with
its dark auditorium and the dim flickering light on its stage, has a
desolate, ghostly air. A smell of gas, dust and moist cloth pervades
the atmosphere.

A grey rime of congealed mist clings to and trickles down the clothes
of the latest arrivals. One sees within the hall how bad the weather
must be without. The lusty male chorus, with their pear-shaped Flemish
faces, their picturesquely soiled linen, and their luxuriant growth of
hair, knock off the clay from their boots and turn down the legs of
their trousers. The disheveled female chorus, on whose shoulders the
locks are hanging out of curl, complain of indisposition, and exchange
cough lozenges. The members of the orchestra work away sulkily on their
instruments. Across the dissonance of the thrilling fiddles darts the
sharp sound of a string that breaks.

Two dilettanti have slipped in by favor. One is a young piano teacher
of German extraction, who raves about the music of the future. The
other is an amateur, well known in Brussels by the nickname of "l'ami
de Rossini."

The instruments are tuned; here and there a violin practices a scale.
The gas jets chirp faintly. The male chorus stamp their feet to keep
warm, and rub their red knuckles together. De Sterny is letting himself
be waited for.

The friend of Rossini makes up to the lady soloists.

"Madame," he says to the Alto, whose engagement at the "Monnaie" he had
helped to bring about, "Madame, I pity you. De Sterny is an exponent of
this new music of the future. His compositions are among the most
ungrateful tasks ever set the human throat. One only needs to sing them
to expiate by penance all one's musical pleasures."

"You are too severe, monsieur," said the Alto. "No one can wonder at
the 'friend of Rossini' for hating the music of the future, and I grant
that some numbers of this Oratorio are quite astonishingly dull. But
with some of the others, monsieur, I predict that you will have to
confess yourself in sympathy."

"_I_, confess myself in sympathy with the music of the future!"

"Well, well," said the Alto, soothingly, "up to a certain point I agree
with your aversion, but you must grant all the same that Wagner and
Berlioz are composers of genius, and that the music of the future has
opened new regions of art."

"What has it opened? A parade ground for pretentious mediocrity! I'll
grant this much, that Wagner and Berlioz are ill-doers of genius. But
the'school!' and this new invention they call descriptive music! An
insurrection of fiddles screaming over against one another! and they
give it names. 'Battleo of the Horatii'--'Eruption of Vesuvius'--so
that the audience may have something to think about since they can't
feel anything, except headache!"

L'ami de Rossini laughed very much at his own joke.

"H'm!-m! and this fine work of de Sterny's," he began again, "I suppose
it consists of splendid paraphrases upon poverty of thought."

"The 'Satan' contains pearls which will enchant you," replied the Alto.
"But see--here comes de Sterny! I commend the 'Duet of the Outcasts' to
your attention."

Followed by the capellmeister and a little group of intimate admirers,
Alphonse de Sterny stepped upon the platform. The German pianist
started and raised a pair of rapture dilated eyes. De Sterny, who was
well accustomed to create that sort of excitement, smiled faintly,
threw her an encouraging glance, and nodding to the bowing orchestra
took his place before the conductor's desk. Then he let his keen eyes
run over the ranks of his musical forces. The violin rows were not
even.

"Who is absent?" he asked, pointing to the vacant place.

The violins looked at one another, murmured a name indistinctly, and
some one said, "He is excused."

"He is only just out of the hospital," explained the capellmeister, "he
often is irregular about rehearsals."

"And you permit that?" asked de Sterny, with his deliberate smile.

"He--he--never spoils anything at the concerts, and I have
consideration for him because, because,"--the capellmeister stammered,
embarrassed, and stopped short. "But certainly it is an inexcusable
irregularity and should be punished," he added.

De Sterny shrugged his shoulders. "Don't disturb yourself," he said,
"but next time I hope I shall find my musical forces all together." He
rapped on the desk.

His manner of conducting was characteristic. It recalled neither the
fiery contortions of Verdi, nor the demoniac energy of Berlioz. His
movements at first were quiet, almost weary, his countenance wore an
expression of fixed concentration; suddenly his eyes lighted up, his
lip quivered, his breast heaved as an exciting climax approached, he
raised his arms higher and higher, like wings with which he would
wrench himself free from earth; then all at once he collapsed with a
look of dejected exhaustion.

"He is killing himself!" sighed the pianist, in a gush of sympathy. But
the friend of Rossini said testily:

"He is an incarnate phrase like his own music, and just as full of
grimaces!" The introductory figure had confirmed his aversion to de
Sterny. "A pretentious fuss!" he muttered grimly, while the pianist
with her hand on her heart declared she had "heard the fall of
Avalanches!" The figure was repeated and left for future study, and
then the Alto laid aside her furs, rose, threw the "friend of Rossini"
one glance, drew her mouth into the regulation Oratorio smile, and
began.

Upon a somewhat dramatic recitation there followed a meltingly sweet,
inexpressibly mournful melody! Yes, really a _melody_! As simple,
genuine and tender as a melody of Mozart, but adapted to the
requirements of our modern pain craving ears by a few bitter-melancholy
modulations. The friend of Rossini could scarcely believe his senses.

And now with every number,--a few bombastic interludes excepted--the
beauties of "Satan" increased until at last at the "Duet of the
Outcasts," a duet wherein the whole human race seems to weep for its
lost heaven, the orchestra rose and broke into enthusiastic applause.
De Sterny shed tears, assured them it was the happiest moment of his
life, and the execution of the orchestra surpassed all his hopes, the
pianiste fell into raptures, and the friend of Rossini growled, while
he mechanically moved his hands in applause, "Where did he get that
now? A plagiarism--a mass of plagiarism--but from whence?"

The duet was followed by a really hateful finale, which the more
experienced among the musicians forgave for the sake of the Oratorio's
otherwise uncommon beauties. The musical craft generally put their envy
in their pockets, didn't understand, but made their bows as became them
before a great mystery.

Next morning, de Sterny, in the coupe of the Countess C---- drove up
the steep street Montague de la Cour. He was going to be served with an
exquisite breakfast, by gold laced lackeys, and to let himself be
buzzed about by mind perverting flatteries uttered in soft aristocratic
voices. Suddenly he saw something that interested--that startled him.

Before one of the large red posters which announced the approaching
Oratorio performance, stood a broad-shouldered man with worn-out boots,
shabby clothes, and a soft felt hat dragged down over his ears.

A crowd of wagons blocked the way, and the coupe was obliged to stop.
Again the virtuoso glanced at the shabby man; this time he saw him in
profile. Strange! De Sterny turned pale as a corpse and leaned back
shuddering in the soft green satin cushions of the carriage. Could it
be that he knew the shabby man, or had known him before the brutalizing
stamp of drink had disfigured his face?

Who knows? For the matter of that there was enough in the stranger's
appearance to draw a glance and a shudder from any passer-by.

Round shoulders, a loose carriage, a slouching walk, and yet in the
whole person and expression of broken-down vigor, and burned-out fire.
A handsome face, with somewhat too full red lips, a short nose,
powerful brow and eyes, the latter contracting and peering out like
those of a wild animal that shuns the light, or like those of a man who
will see nothing but the narrow path in which he is condemned to walk,
or, perhaps, where he has condemned himself to walk, for life: in the
whole countenance the marks of past anguish and present degradation.

Meanwhile the jam has given way, and while C---- cream colors, striking
out to regain lost time, bring the great man rapidly up to the
countess's palace, the shabby stranger enters one of those butter shops
out of which, in the rear, a liquor shop usually opens, and calls for a
glass of gin.




                                  III


Who was he? What was he?

One of those riddles that heaven sends from time to time down to earth
to be solved. But the earth occasionally finds the task too difficult
and buries the riddle unread in her bosom.

He was born in Brussels, the son of a chorus singer in the theatre "de
la Monnaie," and of one of those Hungarian Gipsy musicians, who appear
now here now there in the capitals and small towns of Europe, always in
bands, like troops of will-o'-the-wisps, carrying on their unwarranted
and unjustifiable but bewitching musical nonsense. The mother,
Margaretha von Zuylen, she was called, gave the boy the first name of
his Hungarian father, who had disappeared before the child saw the
light. The Flemish woman's son was named Gesa, Gesa von Zuylen. He had
a dark-eyed face, framed by black curls; at the same time he was
somewhat rounded in feature, and heavily built, indicating that he was
a son of his flat, canal-intersected fatherland. His temperament was a
strange mixture of dreamy inertness and fitful fire. The alley in which
he grew up was called the Rue Ravestein, and stretched itself crooked
and uneven, dirty and neglected, behind the Rue Montagne de la Cour,
out toward St. Gudule. The nooks and corners of that region, albeit
close to the brilliant centre of urban civilization, have an ill name,
are picturesquely disreputable, and quite unrecognized by the good
society of Brussels. No carriage can pass here, partly because the
alleys are too narrow, partly because their original unevenness--no
country in the world has a more hilly capital than flat Belgium--is
increased here and there by a few rickety steps. Consequently nearly
all the inhabitants extend their domestic establishments into the open
air.

The active life and the dirt remind one of southern cities. Decaying
vegetables, squirrel skins, paper flowers, old ball gloves, ashes, and
other trash make themselves comfortable on the large irregular stones
of the pavement, and through the middle slowly creep the dull and
stagnant waters of the drain. Long-legged hyena-like dogs, with crooked
backs and rough hides, that remind the visitor of Constantinople,
belonging to nobody, snuff amongst the refuse; scissors-grinders, and
other roofless vagabonds, lie, according to the time of year, in the
shade or the sunshine; untidy women in dirty wrappers, with slovenly
hair caught up on pins, lean out of windows and carry on endless
conversations; others stand in the house doors, a puffy red fist on
either hip, and look forth, blinking at time creeping by.

The houses are not alike, some are narrow and tall, some broad and low,
as if crowded into the ground by their monstrous red-green roofs. In a
few windows are flower pots, others are closely curtained. Small, not
particularly tempting drinking shops, with dark red woodwork, on which
is written in white letters, "Hier verkoopt men drank," frequently
break the rows of dwellings. Any one of these alleys, in Gesa's youth,
might have passed for all the rest, only the Rue Ravestein perhaps was
still more disreputably picturesque than the others. With the lazy hum
of its vagabond life there mingled the sound of the coffin maker's
hammer and the sharp stroke of the stone mason's chisel. Against the
rear wall of an ancient grey church there leaned an enormous crucifix,
and from beneath the time-blackened halo around his head, the Redeemer
looked sadly down on the shame and misery that he had not been able to
banish from the world. Two narrow church windows mirrored themselves in
the waters of the drain, that is, on days when the drain was clear
enough.

In these surroundings Gesa grew up. His mother belonged among those
females who stood in the house doors and blinked at time creeping by.
She was a type of a handsome Fleming, tall, somewhat heavy, with
powerful limbs and a red and white complexion. Her red lips parted
indolently over very white teeth, a delicate pink played about her
nostrils. She had the prominent eyes and the richly waving, luxuriant,
tawny hair with which Rubens liked to adorn his Magdalens. When she was
not engaged at the theatre, or standing in the house door, she was
lounging on her straw bed in the gaunt room, reading robber stories out
of old journals, that were bought from an antiquary in a rag shop near
by, and circulated from hand to hand among the gossips of the Rue
Ravestein.

Lazy to sleepiness, good-humored to weakness, she had ever a caress for
Gesa, and a merry frolic for the big grey cat. She lived only in the
moment. In the beginning of the month, she fed the boy with dainties,
toward the end she ran in debt.

From his earliest youth Gesa was musical. Before he could speak, he
would look up with great dark eyes to his mother, enchanted when she
rocked him in her arms and sang a cradle song.

A friend of Margaretha taught the little one to play on the violin.
Gesa learned extraordinarily fast. The chorus singer's financial
condition growing constantly more and more unfortunate, led her to make
use of her son's talent, and she actually procured him an engagement,
when he was hardly nine years old, in the band of a circus that had
erected its temporary booths on the "Grand Sablon," and whose company
consisted of an acrobat of conspicuous beauty, a particularly
unpleasant dwarf named Molaro, four monkeys and a pony, the height of
whose accomplishments it was to stand on three legs, though that might
have been due to infirmity rather than art.

Gesa's orchestral duties consisted in supporting, along with an old
flutist, the musical disorders of a narrow-chested, long-haired youth,
who hammered waltzes and polkas on a tired old spinnet, while at the
same time, as he confessed to little Gesa with a sigh, he had vainly
longed all his life to be entrusted with the execution of a funeral
march!

The circus gave its performances