How Chopin came to Remsen/Chapter 2

saying good-night to the last of my guests, who had expressed regret at the rumor that my husband was seriously indisposed, I hurried to the smoking-room, having learned that Tom had fled thither as a refuge from the curious and the congratulatory. As I came upon him he was alternately puffing a cigar and sipping a brandy and soda. On the instant the conflicting emotions that had beset me during the evening became a wave of anger, sweeping over me with irresistible force.

"Why have you deceived me, Tom Remsen?" I cried, sinking into a chair and resting my aching head against its back, as I scanned his pale, weary countenance attentively. "You have always pretended that you had no knowledge of music. I have heard you say that you couldn't whistle even a bar of 'Yankee Doodle' correctly. What a poseur you have been! And to-night, in a vulgar, theatrical way you suddenly exhibit the most astonishing talent. There is not an amateur in the world, Tom, who can interpret Chopin with such sympathy, such perfection of technique, such reserved power as you displayed this evening. You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and I can't conceive of any reasonable motive for your unnatural reticence. Why, Tom—answer me!—why have you concealed from me the fact that you are an accomplished—yes, a brilliant musician? Think of all the pleasure that we have lost in the last ten years by your deception and falsehoods—for that's what they were, Tom!" My voice broke a little, and I felt the tears creeping toward my eyes. "You have been cruel, Tom! Knowing my passionate love for music, why did you choose to hide a talent that would have drawn us so close together? And your revelation! It was the very refinement of brutality, Tom Remsen, to place me in such an awkward attitude! How could I explain my ignorance of your genius to our friends? They must consider me either a fool or a liar. As for what they think of you, Tom"

"Stop it, Winii;red!" cried my husband, hoarsely, putting up a hand protestingly. "I've had enough. I can't stand anything more to-night. If I tried to tell you the truth you wouldn't believe it, so you'd better leave me. I'll smoke another cigar. I'll never get to sleep again, I fear."

His last words sounded like a groan. My mood was softened by his evident distress.

"Do try to tell me the truth, Tom," I said, gently. "I'll believe what you say. There's a difference between positive and negative lying. I don't think you'd tell me a deliberate falsehood, Tom."

There was something in his appearance at this moment that suggested to me a wounded animal at bay. Presently he lighted a fresh cigar, and gazing at me steadily, said:

"The cold, hard truth is this, Winifred: I never touched the keys of a piano in my life until an hour ago. I remember being drawn irresistibly to the instrument. What happened afterward I don't know. The first thing that I can recall was being hit in the head with some fool woman's bouquet. I remember saying, 'No flowers, please,' in a silly kind of way, but what it all meant I didn't know, and I don't know now. Do you?"

I sat speechless, gazing at Tom in bewilderment. He had never, in the twelve years of our betrothal and marriage, told me an untruth. I had often caught myself envying women whose husbands spiced the realism of domestic life with a romantic tale now and again. I know a woman who derives great intellectual enjoyment from cross-questioning her lesser half every twenty-four hours in an effort to prove that nature designed her for a clever detective. She would have drooped and died had she married Tom.

As I watched his honest face, pale now and careworn, I realized that I was confronted by two explanations of the present crisis, either one of which was inconceivable. Tom had told me a deliberate lie, or a miracle, to use an unscientific word, had been wrought through forces the existence of which I had always denied.

"No, Tom, I don't know what it means," I answered presently. "How did you happen to choose the Chopin ballad for your début?"

I had not intended to hurt the poor fellow's feelings, but the change in his expression from weariness to wonderment filled me with remorse.

"I didn't choose anything," he muttered, reproachfully. "If I made an ass of myself, Winifred, I was not responsible. What the deuce did I do? You haven't told me—and I don't know."

By an effort of will I controlled the nervous chill that was threatening me, and said, quietly:

"Tom, you played Chopin's Ballad No. 3, Opus 47, in a way that would have satisfied Chopin himself. No performer living could have equaled your rendition. It was masterly."

Tom's mouth fell open in amazement. He closed it over a brandy and soda. "I can't believe it," he cried, setting down his glass and gazing at the smoke curling up from his cigar. "Why, Winifred, the thing's absurd. I never heard the—what do you call it?—in my life. And if I'd listened to it every day for a year I couldn't play it. I couldn't even whistle it."

I laughed aloud hysterically. There was a ludicrous side to the situation, despite its uncanny features.

What are you laughing at, Winifred?" demanded Tom, angrily. "Is there anything funny about all this? It seems, if I can believe what you say, that I made a kind of pianola of myself without knowing it. Is that a joke? I tell you, Winifred, it's paresis or something worse. Maybe I'll rob a bank next. And when I'm bailed out, I suppose I'll find you in a broad grin."

I was too near the verge of nervous collapse to repress the feeling of unreasonable annoyance that came over me at Tom's words. "I think you're very unjust, Tom," I exclaimed, with great lack of judgment.

"Unjust!" he echoed, petulantly. "Unjust to whom—to what?"

"You're unjust to Chopin," I answered, hotly, realizing that I was talking in a distinctly childish way. "Playing one of his masterpieces is not quite like robbing a bank."

"Why not," he snapped, "if I don't know how to play it? I certainly robbed those fool women of their flowers, didn't I? They pelted me with bouquets as if I was a boy wonder or a long-haired bang-the-keys, and I don't know the soft pedal from the key of E. I wouldn't do Chopin an injustice. He's dead, isn't he? But you mustn't do me an injustice, Winifred. I can't stand anything more to-night."

My heart seemed to come into my throat with a sob, and I drew my chair close to Tom's and took his cold hand in mine. "I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I've been sorely tried, you must admit. I'm not quite myself, I fear."

Tom turned quickly and gazed squarely into my eyes. "Don't you worry, Winifred. You're yourself, all right. But who the dickens am I? If I'm Tom Remsen, I can't play Chopin. And you say I did play Chopin. I don't say I didn't. But how did I do it? Tom Remsen couldn't do it. Look at my hands, Winifred. Could my fingers knock a pianissimo out of a minor chord?—if that's what that fellow Chopin does. I tell you it's queer, and I don't like it."

A well-defined shudder shook Tom's heavy frame, and his hand, as it rested in mine, trembled perceptibly. His voice had sunk to a whisper as he asked: "Do you think it possible that I was hypnotized, Winifred? I never took any stock in hypnotism, but there may be something in it. That Signor Turino has got a queer eye."

"I'm sure I don't know what to think, Tom," I admitted, reluctantly. By abandoning the theory that Tom had deceived me for a dozen years I was plunged into a tempestuous sea of mystery and conjecture. "But come, my dear boy, you are fagged out. We'll talk it over in the morning. Perhaps our minds will be clearer after a few hours' sleep."

"I couldn't sleep now," he returned, nervously, glancing at his watch. "Don't go yet, Winifred. It's only two o'clock."

We sat silent for a time, hand clasped in hand, like a youth and maiden awed by a sudden realization of the marvelous mysteries of existence. Presently Tom spoke again, and I felt that it was a lawyer, in full control of his nerves, who questioned me. "Did I look—ah—dazed—or queer—when I went to the piano, my dear?"

"No, Tom," I answered, after a pause. "You—you—now, don't think me flippant—you looked just as you do when you're being shaved."

"Before all those people!" he gasped. "What do you mean, Winifred?"

"Your chin was up in the air, Tom, and your head was thrown back."

"But you didn't see any lather?" he asked, foolishly.

"Don't be silly, Tom," I cried, petulantly. But I had done him another injustice; he had not intended to be jocose.

"And then what did I do?" he asked, eagerly.

"And then you played that ballad with the inspiration of genius and the technique of a master."

"It stumps me!" he muttered. "Winifred, is there anything about this fellow Chopin in the library? Any books about him?"

"Yes, Tom, several; but you'd better not look at them to-night—if at all. Perhaps to-morrow you won't care to."

Tom's heavy features assumed their most stubborn aspect. He stood erect, still holding my hand, and I was forced to rise.

"Come with me, Winifred. I'm going to solve this mystery before I sleep, even if it takes two days. Come!"

Without further protest I accompanied Tom to the library.