Three Stories/Under the Hollow Tree/Chapter 6
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CHAPTER VI.
HEN the appointed day arrived, the theatre did not differ from its ordinary appearance except perhaps that the public interest was somewhat less than heretofore. The public knew the opera, and it knew Krista’s song in it and was already accustomed to it as we accustom ourselves at last to all. Even popular enthusiasm in the end smoothes out its waves. Krista was an apparition above all dear to them but they were already habituated to it. To-day they went to the theatre pretty much from habit, not from any inward necessity, not because something drew them to it with irresistible force. Nothing that they could see and hear to-day could be any more either novel or striking. They saw and heard it already in their recollection, to-day those recollections had only to be sprinkled with a few drops of dew and then they would be tolerably revived, and ever recollection is but pale and wan beside the full blown roses of novelty.
The theatre then had a more ordinary appearance. Among the public there was no expectation only certainty, comfortable eee: Just as, when we travel through a country for the second or third time we know where we ought to look out of the window and where we.may spare ourselves the pains.
True, one new violinist sat yonder in the orchestra, but does that change the aspect of a theatre? Is the aspect of a country changed because there is one tree there more or one tree there less? In the orchestra! The orchestra is not the stage. On the stage we mark at once every change—but the orchestra! Who gives so much as a passing look to that. If a young drummer is seated by the drum instead of the old one whom they buried yesterday what of that? If a bald pate stands by the bass fiddle who a few years before had not yet grown bald—what of that? Not a single person paid the slightest attention to his head while it was hairy, why should he pay attention to it any more, now that it is smooth and polished.
A new violinist! Plenty of them are seated in the orchestra; whether there is one more or one less concerns only the members of the orchestra, and among these perhaps only the violinists, it does not change the aspect of the theatre. True there were in the orchestra artists as good as those on the stage, but it is the fashion with the public to look only at the stage, let us piously adhere then to the fashion.
And now the curtain was furled up. When the violin solo came, Venik settled himself to his violin and played. In this solo the violinist was allowed some liberty and was not obliged to confine himself rigidly to the written score, he might improvise and he did improvise.
When Venik began to play, something thrilled the audience and caused it to cast a languid look at the orchestra and it was observed that someone different was performing to-day. Even those tones were different. And scarcely had people listened a moment longer when they held their breath.
That violin was all at once in tears and lamentation. The hillside and the woodland sobbed out in it, and man bewailed. And he bewailed with anguish and with wrath.
The theatre was thrilled anew, it was thrilled again and again. Its aspect was completely changed by the mere swaying of a hand. Venik had brought the public to their senses, and now he played “The Orphaned Child.”
It was a horrible outpouring of grief, and beneath it all lay a hidden tempest of emotion. People wiped away their tears, and their flesh crept.
And that violin seemed to wish to speak as follows: “Like two flower-cups, we grew together on one stalk, and thou, rapacious hand of society hast torn away the one and I the other am orphaned.
And that violin seemed to say, like two birds we fluttered together over the hillside when they take counsel together of what they shall weave their nest; and thou insatiable maw of society didst devise a cunning springe. Thou need’st must catch my mate and I am orphaned.”
And further it seemed to say, “Two hearts we grew together side by side, and one struck root in the other, ’twas I who cherished those hearts till they were like as one, but ye have rent away the one, the roots which ye have torn out with it have left but wounds, and those which ye have not torn out anguish yet more—ye have that heart and I—I am orphaned of it.”
And then it said, “We were that sportive, laughter-loving nature which maketh music in itself: but ye had a craving for mere craftmanship; ye outraged nature, and nature thus outraged has found her way hither, and calls aloud in me because I am orphaned.”
And yet again it said, “Faith have ye expunged out of my life, and what exotics have ye planted there instead? Who of you dares still to submit his prayers to heaven, when ye have plucked the heart out of my breast for life? But I indeed have a right to tears and bitter accusations and wrath and cursing, and I fling my curse upon you—I hate you and I curse you—I, only an orphaned child.”
And much more in the like strain did that violin say to them, and the public heard it and understood it, trembled, and wept salt tears. It was like a trumpet call to judgment; an invisible hand wrote the words of fate and the words were comprehensible to all. The audience half rose from their places, to see who it was that could thus speak with his strings and their hearts heaved with one common emotion. He who but a little moment before was last in the theatre was now first. He singly had changed the whole aspect of the theatre—changed, nay, revolutionized it. They were but simple tones, but they crashed and sawed. The public swayed the head in one common movement, it seethed in one common turmoil of feeling, but it was silent. That silence was ominous.
And how passed it on the stage? On the stage was a garden and in it a gay company.
When Krista heard that melody, she left her gay companions, ran across the stage even to the footlights, ran even to the orchestra, and staggered back amongst her gay company. But it was not given her to rest there. She sprang to her feet once more, wrung both her hands, raised them clasped to heaven, then pressed them to her heart, then tore over the stage like one distraught, then seemed to shrink cowering into herself, then again raised herself to her feet with an effort as if she wished to retain her self-command, but in that over tension of the nerves her strength seemed shattered at a single blow, she uttered a shriek which cleft every heart in. twain and sank on the ground all at once, crushed and broken—sunk in a last and deadly faint.
If it was the mimic art, it was past all conception perfect; if it was the mimic art it seemed as though her every gesture had been fashioned by the Creator of the world himself.
So she remained lying and Venik still played on, and the public was carried away by the perfect acting of Krista, and was wrought almost beside itself by the perfect playing of Venik.
Thus they played together once again. The curtain remained for a moment still lifted, and when Venik concluded, it fell. And here arose such a clamour in the theatre, such a tempest of excitement, as was never before seen or heard in any theatre.
The public was by a single touch driven beside itself.
The curtain rose but Krista lay there still, she did not thank them, she did not smile upon them.
The curtain fell, but the public stormed on. And, hereupon, those in the orchestra told Venik that the applause belonged to him, and that he ought to turn toward the public and express his thanks. Venik turned thanked them and smiled, thanked them and smiled also in the name of Krista.
Still the public wished to see Krista again, and here those in the orchestra told Venik that he must hie on to the stage that he and Krista might express their thanks together. They lifted him quite on to the stage, and when the curtain rose, the public could perceive that Venik knelt beside Krista, he cried “Krista! Krista!” but that was inaudible to the public because of its own tremendous clamour.
Then the curtain fell and all at once it seemed as though a knife had stabbed the public and as though each man felt that knife in his own breast.
Then some one stepped forward before the curtain and announced that Krista had fallen in an actual fainting fit, and in the public silence succeeded to the storm.
Then no one stepped forward again before the curtain, but something like a flash of lightning ran through the public and with that lightning a hoarse thunder-peal: “Krista is dead!”
After this lightening stroke the public was stupified.
Meanwhile, on the stage Venik had started back from Krista and now wandered over the stage just as Krista had done a little while before. Then he again knelt beside her and thus remained kneeling. They brought Krista round, physicians hastened to her and vaguely stated that there might yet be hope of her recovery. Krista raised her eyes, seemed to whisper something, seemed to seek someone’s hand and no one understood it all.
Venik cried out “Krista! Krista!” and Krista seemed to collect her ebbing strength into one ray of light, fixed both her eyes on Venik, fixed them on him with a smile and said, “We have found each other at last!”
Venik knelt as if in a dreadful ecstasy and said, “Krista! Krista! we have found each other.”
Then they carried her away from the stage, out into the open air, to the carriage and Venik accompanied her. He was seated in the carriage before they placed her in it, and when they laid her there he took her in his arms, and: he held her softly and warmly so that she might have been upon a bed of roses; he held her to his heart, his breath mingled itself with hers, his eyes intercepted the rays of light which fell from hers, and at intervals as if from the very depths of his soul, re-echoed the words, “Krista we have found one another.” But now it was as though Krista could speak no more in words, her spirit spoke only by a glance and by a smile, and in that glance was a smile.
And yet once again she forced herself to speak, “I knew that thou would’st come but I did not expect thee thus.”
The carriage drove along at a slow pace. It was in solemn pomp that Krista drove home to-day and yet she smiled. Her smile this time belonged to one alone, it was genuine and came from the heart, it was the reflection of her whole being, of her whole life, but of a life which already flickered in the socket. Krista knew it, Venik guessed it too well, and cried out “Krista, Krista, we shall yet tell one another all.”
“Salute the hollow tree,” said Krista, “I wished to have found thee there, thou hast been beforehand with me—’tis better thus.”
The carriage stopped before Krista’s door, Venik lifted her in his arms, bore her to her chamber, there laid her on her bed and Krista still sought his face with her hand. And her own face was smiling, though now her eyes grew cold, and fixed; her whole being already ceased to speak, and she moved no more. Venik again knelt by her side but she was already speechless.
The public dispersed from the theatre, many walked up and down before Krista’s dwelling and spoke about her and about the violin player, and over Prague the news flew like wild fire that Krista was dead.
The storm now emptied itself out of the theatre into the town and as it enlarged its area, diminished somewhat of its tragic force and vehemence.
“It was a stroke,” some whispered. “She fell unfortunately,” said others. But it never occurred to anyone that there was any connection between Krista’s death and Venik’s playing, or indeed between Krista and Venik. When they asked him Venik assented “It was an unfortunate fall,” he said.
Then Venik was alone in the chamber of death. At Krista’s head the waxen tapers were burning, and they and Venik were the only watchers. And here Venik looked musingly at those well-loved features. Ah! how like they were to their living self—how fair they were and the lips scarce cold, as though they might yet move in speech. It was not like the sleep of death, it was not like sleep at all. But just as though she had closed her eyes in sportive jest and pursed her lips together to simulate an easy slumber, and could throw away the mask and thaw the wells of speech whenever she chose.
Venik seemed to see her once again on her couch of leaves and moss within the hollow tree. His hand had strewn the couch of leaves and moss in the old days—the couch from which she fled so faithlessly. And his hand also had strewn the couch on which she lay to-day, but she was not truant now.
Then Venik questioned the shade of her—the lost one. “Krista why didst thou desert me in the old days?” But Krista’s lips were mute and her shadow answered not, and on her face she smiled the same cold smile. And Venik’s tongue faltered his reproaches—“Only once in the old days thou didst desert me.” But the dead Krista treated both his questions and his repinings with the same icy calm and smiled the same cold smile which froze the life blood within him.
And he gazed at the fair fair corpse again and sighed and wondered. “Was it to sleep thus in fruitless beauty on a gilded couch and silken cushions that thou didst leave so recklessly my couch of moss and leaves.”
And then Venik whispered to himself that he would carry her away by stealth and lay her on the couch of moss and leaves and that perhaps she would awaken—perhaps she would rise once more. And then he thought that it would be easier to go to the hollow tree, bring away the leaves and moss, and strew it here, and then perhaps she might awaken. But, however he planned and plotted, Krista treated all his day dreams with the same icy calm and smiled the same cold smile as though she wished to say, “I am contented with everything thou dost,” or again, just as though she said, “Fool, fool, all is over, I am well cared for now.”
Then Krista in that calm unnatural repose was such a riddle to him that he turned away and vowed that he would strive to unriddle it no more. He turned away and taking his violin in his hand examined it all over inch by inch to see where lay that secret source whence had issued words so shrewdly tempered that they had smitten Krista to the death, and then as if to solve the secret his fingers closed idly round the bow and he swept it gently across the strings. But only as though he coaxed and stroked ‘them lest they should utter their words of death anew, only just as Krista had done that night when stepping to the window and gazing at the evening star, she had sung half whispering, half aloud “The orphaned child.”
And Venik too stepped to that open window and looked toward the heaven, looked well nigh in the same direction as did Krista ere death had robbed her of the light for ever. And his strings sighed out in whispers “The orphaned child.” Did Krista listen as she used to listen in the old days? He turned to look at her once more and she smiled as smoothly as before and seemed to say, “I know all, but what of that.” She took all his questionings and all his musings so lightly that his questions died away upon his lips.
Then he stroked her hair just as in the old days he had stroked it by the streamlet under the willows when the cuckoo cuckooed to them, and Krista smiled placidly even at this and seemed to say “How soft your hand is.” And he kissed her eyeballs but now no salt tears oozed from under the heavy eyelids, and he kissed her on the mouth but now alas! it chilled all kissing that fell upon it. And do what he would Krista repulsed him not, at everything she only smiled, to everything she made but one response, “I am contented with everything thou dost.”
She smiled the same cold smile whatever Venik did or thought. Be it subtile questioning, be it doubting, be it the outpouring of affliction—for it all she had but one cold smile.
Then he took his violin into his hands again and turning towards Krista with it he said “A little while ago these strings breathed life, now only the icy wind of death streams from them. Oh! Krista a little while ago they charmed thee to my side, now they have murdered thee and driven thee away for ever.” And Krista ever smiled the same cold smile.
And she still smiled when they brought her coffin and when they laid her to rest in it on a bed of flowers. And when the singers came with whom in times gone by she had wrought her audience to a frenzy of delight, and when above her pealed the funeral dirge its last farewell she smiled the same cold smile. And she smiled when priests came and above her coffin pattered prayers which sounded already like the rattling of the clods of earth upon its lid. And still she smiled when the lid was laid upon the coffin, even when that lid had all but closed upon her, even when in one last lingering gleam the light of this world died away into eternal darkness. The lid concealed her face and concealed her smile. And Venik in spirit saw her still smile on, even in the coffin, even in the carriage in which they laid her.
Now when he saw the horses gird to and move away with her he would gladly have unyoked them and himself drawn Krista to her burial. Now it seemed a shameful thing to leave it to horses to draw her to her last resting place, just as in her hour of triumph it had seemed a shameful thing that the people should yoke themselves to her car. The people paced behind her coffin. There was a countless multitude and Venik was but one of them; and felt the oppressive presence of that crowd. Oh! that he could have carried Krista far away with no one by—carried her away wherever he chose, free from the curious gaze of the inquisitive and where he might vent the anguish of his soul alone.
But in all that multitude sorrow was but a forced unnatural plant. It was but the mere semblance of sorrow and struck no deep root.
That was soon apparent. By the time the procession reached the barriers of the city all but a very few of the mourners had slunk away and ere the earth was well nigh shovelled over the coffin all were gone but he and two or three gravediggers. Then even the gravediggers departed and Venik remained alone. And here beside the grave it seemed as if he talked once more with Krista, as if the bonds of sorrow were loosened and as if even in the midst of bitter anguish he was himself once more.
He stayed long beside the grave and paid his sad court there several days—its living monument. And at evening he went to Krista’s previous dwelling and looked long and wistfully at the yet open casement. But from that casement no one now looked forth either into the street or toward the sky or toward the star.
Then it seemed to Venik as though the book of fate was closed and all was accomplished, he quitted Prague, aimed straight for home, and came one evening to the hillside, beneath which flowed the river and on which stood the hollow tree at the outskirts of the old oak wood.
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