The Ball

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Title:     The Ball
Author: W.H.H. Murray [More Titles by Murray]

It was evening--dark, cool and starry. The earth and water lay hidden in the dusky gloom. Above, the stars were at their brightest. They gleamed and glowed, flashed and scintillated, like jewels fresh from the case. Their fires were many-colored--orange, yellow, and red; and here and there a great diamond, fastened into the zone of night, sent out its intense, colorless brilliancy. Through all the air silence reigned. The winds had died away, and the waters had settled to repose. No gurgle along the shore: no splash against the great logs that made the wharf; no bird of night calling to its mate. Outside all was still. Nature had drawn the curtains around her couch, and, screened from sight, lay in profound repose.

Within, all was light, and bustle, and gayety. From every window lights streamed and flashed. The large parlors were alive with moving forms. The piano, whose white keys were swept by whiter hands, tinkled and rang in liveliest measure. The dance was at its height; and the very floor seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet. The dancers advanced, retired, wheeled and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down, and across the floor in graceful lines.

Amid the happy scene the Old Trapper stood, his stalwart frame erect as in his prime; while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction upon the dancers. For his nature had within its depths that fine capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding happiness and reflect it again.

It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful moods; surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor, as they came to and played across the responsive features. The man of the woods, of the lonely shore, and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise and commotion of human merry-making.

At last the music died away. The dancers checked their feet. The lady who had been playing the piano rose wearily from the instrument and joined a group of friends. The music was not adequate. The notes were too sharp; too isolate; they did not flow together. There was no sweep and swing, nor suavity of connected progress in the strains. The instrument could not lift the dancers up and swing them onward through the mazy motions.

"I tell ye, Henry," said the Old Trapper, as he turned to Herbert who was standing by his side, "the pianner isn't the thing to dance by, for sartin. It tinkles and chippers too much; it rattles and clicks. It don't git hold of the feelin's, Henry;--it don't start the blood in yer veins, nor set yer skin tinglin', nor make the feet dance agin yer will. It's good enough in its way, no doubt; but it sartinly isn't the thing to lift the young folks up and swing 'em round. The fiddle is the thing;--yis, the fiddle is sartinly the thing. I would give a good deal if we had a fiddle here to-night, for I see the boys and girls miss it. Lord-a-massy! how it would set 'em a-goin' if we only had a fiddle here."

"John Norton," said the Lad, who was sitting on a chair hidden away behind the Trapper, "John Norton," and the Lad took hold of the sleeve of his jacket and pulled the Trapper's head down towards him, "would you like to hear a violin to-night?"

"Like to hear a fiddle? Lord bless ye, Lad, I guess I would like to hear a fiddle. I never seed a time I wouldn't give the best beaver hide in the lodge to hear the squeak of the bow on the strings. What's the matter with ye, Lad?" and he drew the old man's head still closer to him, until his ear was within a few inches of his mouth. "I love to play the violin better than I love any thing in the world, and I've got one of the best ones you ever heard, out there in the bow of the boat."

"Heavens and 'arth, Lad!" ejaculated the Trapper, "Did ye say ye could play the fiddle, and that ye had a good one out there in the boat? Lord-a-massy! how the young folks will hop. Scoot out there and git it, boy, and Henry and me will let the folks know what ye've got and what ye can do."

The Lad fairly flashed out of the room. He was gone in an instant; and in a few minutes he had returned, bearing in his hands a bundle which he carried as carefully as a mother would carry her babe; but brief as had been his absence it had allowed sufficient time for Herbert to communicate with the master of ceremonies and for him to announce to the company present that the great lack of the occasion had fortunately and unexpectedly been supplied; for the young man who was with Mr. Herbert and John Norton not only knew how to play the violin, but actually had one in his boat, and had gone to get it, and would be back in a moment. The announcement was received with applause. White hands clapped, and a hundred ejaculations of wonderment sounded forth the surprise and pleasure of the eager throng. And when the Lad came stealing in, bearing his precious burden, he was received with a positive ovation.

It was amusing to see the change which had come over the looks and actions of the company at the mention and appearance of the violin. The faces that had shown indifference and the look of languid weariness freshened and became tense in all their lines; and on their heads again animation sat crowned. Those who were seated jumped to their feet. The conversationalists broke their circle and swung suddenly into line. Eyes sparkled. Little happy screams and miniature war-whoops from the boisterous youngsters rang through the parlor. In eye, and look, and voice, the popular tribute spoke in honor of the popular instrument,--an instrument whose strings can sound almost every passion forth: The quip and quirk of merriment, the mourner's wail, the measured praise of solemn psalms, the lively beat of joy, the subtle charm of indolent moods, and the sweet ecstacy of youthful pleasure, when with flying feet and in the abandon of delight she swings, circles, and floats through the measures of the voluptuous waltz.

In one corner of the parlor there was a platform, from which charades and private theatricals had been acted on some previous evening, and to this the Lad was escorted; and strange to say his awkwardness had departed from him. His form was straight. His head was lifted. His shambling gait steadied itself with firmest confidence. His long arms sought no longer feebly to hide themselves, but held the package that he carried in fond authority of gesture, as a proud mother, whose pride had banished bashfulness, might carry a beautiful child. So the Lad went toward the dais, and, seating himself in the chair, proceeded with deliberate tenderness to uncover the instrument.

An old, dark-looking one it was. The gloom of centuries darkened it. Their dusk had penetrated the very fibre of the wood. Its look suggested ancient times; far climes; and hands long mouldering in dust. It was an instrument to quicken curiosity and elicit mental interrogation. What was its story? Where was it made? By whom, and when? The Lad did not know. It was his mother's gift, he said. And an old sea-captain had given it to his mother. The old sea-captain had found it on a wreck in the far-off Indian Ocean. He found it in a trunk--a great sea chest made of scented wood and banded with brazen ribs. And in the chest, with it, it was rumored the old mariner had found silks, and costly fabrics, and gold, and eastern gems,--gems that never had been cut, but lay in all their barbaric beauty, dull and swarth as Cleopatra's face. Thus the violin had been found on the far seas--at the end of the world, as it were, and in companionship of gems and fabrics rich and rare; and in a chest whose mouth breathed odors. This was all the Lad knew.

"Henry," said the old Trapper, "the Lad says the fiddle is so old that no one knows how old it is; and I conceit the boy speaks the truth. It sartinly looks as old as a squaw whose teeth has dropped out and whose face is the color of tanned buckskin. I tell ye, Henry, I believe it will bust if the Lad draws the bow with any 'arnestness across it, for there never was a glue made that would hold wood together for a thousand year. And if that fiddle isn't a thousand year old, then John Norton is no jedge of appearances, and can't count the prongs on the horns of a buck."

At this instant the Lad dropped the bow upon the strings. Strong and round, mellow and sweet, the note swelled forth. Starting with the least filament of sound, it wove itself into a compact chord of sonorous resonance; filled the great parlors; passed through the doorway into the receptive stillness outside; charged it with throbbings--thus held the air a moment; reigned in it--then, calling its powers back to itself, drew in its vibrating tones; checked its undulating force; and leaving the air by easy retirement, came back like a bird to its nest and died away within the recesses of the dark, melodious shell from whence it started.

When the bow first began its course across the strings the old Trapper's eyes were on it; and as the note grew and swelled he seemed to grow with it. His great fingers shut into their palms as if an unseen power was pulling at the chords. His breast heaved. His mouth actually opened. It was as if the rising, swelling, pulsating sounds actually lifted him from off the floor on which he stood, and when the magnificent note ebbed and finally died away within the violin, not only he, but all the company stood breathless: charmed, surprised, astonished into silence at the wondrous note they had heard.

The old Trapper was the first to move. He brought his brawny hand down heavily upon Herbert's shoulder, and, with a face actually on fire with the fervor stirred within him, exclaimed:

"Lord-a-massy! Henry, did ye ever hear a noise like that? I say, boy, did ye ever hear a noise like that? Where on arth did it all come from? Why, boy, 'twas as long and as solemn as a funeral, as arnest as the cry of a panther, and roared like a nest of hornets when ye poke 'em with a stick. If that's a fiddle, I wonder what the other things be that I have heerd the half-breeds and the Frenchers play in the clearin's."

Well might the old Trapper be astonished. The violin of unknown age and make was one among ten thousand. It was a concert to hear the Lad tune it; which he did with a bold and skilful touch, and the exactness of an ear which nature had made exquisitely true to time and chord. His bashfulness was gone. His timidity had departed. His awkwardness, even, went out of body and arm and fingers, with the initial note. His soul had found its life with his mother's gift; and he who was so weak and hesitating in ordinary moments, found courage and strength, and the dignity of a master, when he touched the strings. At last the instrument was ready. And with a flourish bold and free he struck into the measures of a waltz that filled the parlor with circling noise, and made the air throb and beat--swing and swell, as if it were liquid, and unseen hands were moving it with measured undulations.

There was no resisting an influence so sweet, subtle, and pervasive, as flowed from that easy-going bow, as it came and went over the resounding strings. Couple after couple swung off into the open space, until the entire company were swinging and floating through the dreamy and bewitching measures. The god of music was actually in the room, and his strong, passionate touch was on the souls of those who were floated hither and thither as if blown by his invisible breath. The music took possession of the dancers. It banished the mortal heaviness from their frames, and made them buoyant, so that their feet scarce touched the floor. Up and down and across from side to side and end to end they whirled and floated. They moved as if a power which took the place of wings was in them. They did not seem to know that they were dancing. They did not dance; they floated, flowing like a current moved by easy undulations. Their hands were clasped. Their faces nearly touched. Their eyes were closed or glowing. And still the long bow came and went, and still the music rose and sank, swelled and ebbed, as easy waves advance, retreat and flood again, breaking in white and lazy murmurs at twilight on the dusky beach.

Herbert stood still; his eyes were lifted, the gaze in them far away, and one foot beat the measure. Beside him stood the Trapper. His arms were crossed; his eyes were on the bow that the Lad was drawing, and his body swayed, lifted and sank in perfect harmony with the motions and the accompanying sound, with a grace which nature only reaches when the will is utterly surrendered to a power that has charmed the stiffness and tension out of the frame and made it yielding and responsive.

At last the music stopped; and with it stopped each form. Each foot was arrested at the point to which the sound had carried it when it paused. Each couple stood in perfect pose. The motive power which moved them was withdrawn, and the limbs stood motionless as if the soul that gave them animation had retired. They had been lifted to another world--a world of impulse and movement more airy and spirit-like than the gross earth,--and it took a moment for them to struggle back to ordinary life. But in a moment thought recalled them to themselves, and they realized the mastery of the power that had held them at its will and the applause broke out in showers of happy tumult. They crowded around the Lad--strong men and beautiful women,--gazing at him in wonder; then broke up into knots talking and marvelling. To the old Trapper's face, as he gazed at the Lad, a strange look came,--the look of a man to whose soul has come a revelation so pure and sweet that he is unable at first to compass it with his understanding. He came close to the Lad, and, sitting down on the edge of the platform, put his hand on the knee of the youth, and said:

"I have heerd most of the sweet and terrible noises that natur' makes, boy: I have heered the thunder among the hills, when the Lord was knockin' ag'in the 'arth until it jarred; and I have heered the wind in the pines and the waves on the beaches when the darkness of night was on the woods, and Natur' was singin' her evenin' psalm; and there be no bird or beast the Lord has made whose cry, be it lively or solemn, I have not heerd; and I have said that man had never made an instrument that could make so sweet a noise as Natur' makes when the Sperit of the universe speaks through her stillness: but ye have made sounds to-night, Lad, sweeter than my ears have ever heerd on hill or lake-shore, at noon or in the night season, and I sartinly believe that the Sperit of the Lord has been with ye, boy, and gi'n ye the power to bring out sech music as the Book says the angels make in their happiness in the world above. I trust ye be grateful, Lad, for the gift the Lord has gi'n ye; for, though yer tongue knows leetle of speech, yit yer fingers can bring sech sounds out of that fiddle as a man might wish to have in his ears when his body lies stiffenin' in his cabin, and his sperit is standin' on the edge of the Great Clearin'. Yis, Lad, ye must sartinly play for me when my eyes grow dim, and my feet strike the trail that no man strikes but once, nor travels both ways."

At this point the announcement of supper was made; and the company streamed towards the tables. The repast was of that bounteous character customary to the houses located in the woods, in which the hearty provisions of the forest were brought into conjunction with and re-enforced by the more light and fanciful _cuisine_ of the cities. Among the substantiate, fish and venison predominated. There was venison roast, and venison spitted, and venison broiled; venison steak and venison pie; trout broiled, and baked, and boiled; pancakes and rolls; ices and cream; pies and puddings; pickles and sauces of every conceivable character and make; ducks and partridges; coffee and tea whose nature, I regret to say, was discernible only to the eye of faith. In the midst of this abundance, the Old Trapper was entirely at home. He ate with the relish and heartiness of a man whose appetite was of the highest order, and whose courage mounted to the occasion.

"I tell ye, Henry," said the old man, as he transferred a duck to his plate and proceeded to carve it with the aptness of one who had practical knowledge of its anatomy, "I tell ye, Henry, the birds be gittin' fat; and I sartinly hope the flight this fall will be a good un. Don't be bashful, Lad, in yer eatin'," he continued, as he transferred half of the bird to his companion's plate, "ye haven't got the size of some about the waist, but yer length is in yer favor, and if ye will only straighten up, and Henry don't gin' out, there'll be leetle left on this eend of the table when we have satisfied our hunger. I don't know when the cravin' of natur' has been stronger within me then it is this minit; and if nothin' happens, and ye stand by me, the Saranacers will remember our visit for days after we be gone. It isn't often that I feed in the settlements, or get a taste of their cookin', but the man who basted these birds knowed what he was doin', and the fire has given them jest the right tech; and the morsels actilly melt in yer mouth."

The Trapper's feelings were evidently not peculiar to himself. And the spirit of feasting was abroad. The eating was such as would astonish the dwellers in cities. Wit flashed across the table in answer to wit. Mirth rippled from end to end of the room. Laughter roared and rollicked adown the hall. Jokes were cracked. Fun exploded. Plates rattled. Cups and glasses touched and rang. Even the waiters, as they came and went in their happy service, caught the infection of the surrounding happiness, and their laughter mingled with that of the guests.

The great pine branches and the evergreens nailed against the corner posts and wreathed into festoons along the walls shook and trembled in the uproar as to the passage of winds along their native hills. And the huge buck's heads, whose antlers were tied with rosettes and streaming ribbons, lost the staring look of their great artificial eyes and seemed as they gazed out through the interlacing boughs of cedar and balsam as if life had returned to them, and they once more were animate.

In about an hour the company streamed back into the parlor, with a mood even livelier than that which had characterized the early hours of the occasion. Their minds were in the state of highest action, and their bodies needed but the opportunity for rapid motion. Even the Lad had caught the infection of the surrounding liveliness, for his eyes and face glowed with the light of quickened animation.

"Have ye got any jigs in that fiddle, Lad?" said the Trapper; "Can ye twist any thing out of yer instrument that will set the feet travellin'? It seems to me that the young folks here want shakin' up a leetle; and a leetle of the old-fashioned dancin' will help 'em settle the vittles. Can ye liven up, Lad, and give 'em a tune that will set 'em whirlin'?"

The only reply of the Lad was a motion of the bow; but the motion was effective, for it sent a torrent of notes into the air, which thrilled through the body and tingled along the nerves like successive electric shocks. The old Trapper fairly bounded into the air; and when he struck the floor his feet were flying. Nor was he alone; the jig had started a dozen on the instant; and the floor rattled and rang with the tap of toe and heel.

"Henry," said the old Trapper, "hold on to me or I shall sartinly make a fool of myself. The Lad is ticklin' me from head to foot, and my toes are snappin' inside of the moccasins. Lord, who'd a thought that the blood in the veins of a man whose head is whitenin' could be sot leapin' as mine is doin' at this minit by the scrapin' of a fiddle!"

The Lad was a picture to see. His bow flew like lightning. His long fingers drummed and slid along the strings of the violin with bewildering swiftness. The little instrument jetted and effervesced its melody. The continuous and resounding noise poured out of it in tuneful bubbles. The air was filled with tinkling fragments of sound. The Lad's body swayed to and fro. His face glowed. His eyes flashed. The sweat stood in drops on his forehead, but still the bow snapped and crinkled, and the instrument continued to burst in musical explosions, while the floor shook, the windows rattled, and the lamps flared and fluttered, as the dancers chased the music on.

"Heavens and arth!" said the Trapper. "I can't stand this," and breaking from the hold that Herbert had on him, whirled himself out to the centre of the floor and, with his face aflame with excitement and his white hair flying abroad, led the jig men off with a lightness of foot and quickness of stroke that forced the music by half a beat. The effect was electric. The room burst into applause, and the Lad fetched a stroke that seemed to rip the violin asunder. It was now a race between the violin and the dancers. One after another fell out of the circle as the moments passed, until the Trapper was left alone and was cutting it down in a fashion that both astonished and convulsed the company. More than one of the spectators went on to the floor in paroxysms of laughter. Herbert, bent over with his hands on his knees, was watching the Trapper with mouth stretched to its utmost and streaming eyes.

It is impossible to say which would have triumphed, had not an accident decided the contest and brought the jig to an abrupt termination. For even while the Lad was in the midst of the swiftest execution, the hind legs of the chair in which he was sitting were whipped from their fastenings, his heels went into the air, he turned half a somersault backward and the music stopped with a snap.

It was minutes before a word could be heard. Roars and shrieks and screams of irrepressible and uncontrollable merriment shook the house from foundation to garret. The Lad picked himself up and for the first time since they met Herbert saw his placid countenance wrinkled and seamed with the contortions of uproarious mirth. The sluggishness of his temperament for once was thoroughly agitated and the manhood which never before had come to the surface found in hilarity a visible and adequate expression. The Trapper had spun to his side and the two had joined their hands and, looking into each other's faces, were laughing with a boisterousness that fairly shook their frames and exploded in resounding peals.

Gradually the uproar subsided and the company settled by easy transition to a quieter mood. The hours of the night were passing and the moment drawing nigh when those who had mingled their merriment must part. The old Trapper had regained his gravity and his countenance had settled to its customary repose. It seemed the general wish that the Lad would favor them with a farewell piece, and in compliance with the request of many, the old man turned to him and said:

"The hours be drawing on, Lad, and it's reasonable that we should break up; but afore we go the folks wish to hear ye play a quiet sort of a piece that may be cheerful and pleasant like for them to remember ye by when we be gone. So, Lad, if ye have got anything in yer head that's soft and teching, somethin' that will sort o' stay in the heart as the seasons come and go, I sartinly hope ye will play it for them. And as ye say ye was born by the sea, and as ye say the instrument ye hold in yer hand was gin ye by yer mother, it may be ye can play us something out of yer memory that shall tell us of her goodness to ye. Something I mean, that shall tell us of the shore where ye was born and the love that ye had afore ye laid her to rest and came to the woods seekin' me. Can ye play us somethin' like that, Lad?"

"I can play you anything that has mother in it," said he, and a wistful, yearning, hungry look came into his eyes and the edges of his lips quivered.

The company seated themselves and the boy drew his bow across the instrument. The brush of a painter could not have made the picture more perfect than the vision the Lad brought forth as the bow played on the strings. The picture of a sea, sunlighted and level, stretching far out; the picture of a curved shore: the shore of a quiet bay, rimmed with its beach of shining sand and noisy with the gurgle and splash of lapsing waves; the picture of a home quiet and orderly and filled with the tenderness of a gentle spirit; and then a heavier chord told of the coming of a darker hour when the mother lay dying. The violin fairly sobbed and groaned and wailed, as if the spirit of unconsolable grief were tugging heavily at the strings. Anon, a bell tolled solemnly out of it and its heavy knell clanged through the room. And then the music rested for a minute; and in the silence it seemed as if the grave came into sight as plainly as if the eyes of all were actually looking at its open mouth. Again the music sounded, and the sods, one after another, fell on the coffin, dull and heavy, changing to a gravelly, smothered sound as the grave filled. Once more it paused, and then a clear, sweet strain arose, sad, but pure and fine and hopeful, as voice of angels could have sung it, trustful and resigned. The bow stopped again; for a moment the violin was silent. And then the Lad lifted his face and, laying the bow softly upon the strings, began to play what all instinctively felt was a hymn to the spirit of his mother. Slowly, softly, sweetly, as the strains which the dying sometimes hear, the pure, clear, smooth notes stole out into the hushed air. It was playing, not such as mortal plays to mortal, but such as spirit plays to spirit and soul to soul, to-night, across the street of heaven. The Lad still used an earthly instrument and touched its strings with mortal fingers; but never, while they live, will those who heard that hymn believe that anything less than the spirit of the boy drew from the instrument the notes that filled the room with their divine sweetness. Indeed, the Lad did not act as if he were conscious of his body or of bodily presences around him. His face was lifted and his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, were gazing upward, not as if into vacancy, but as if they saw the bright being that had passed within the veil, standing in all the beauty of her transfiguration before them. For a smile was on the boy's lips, even while the tears were rolling down his cheeks. And when, at last, the arm suspended its motion; when the sweet notes ceased to sound and the last chord had died away, the Lad still kept his uplifted posture and his features held the same rapt expression.

The company sat motionless, their gaze fastened on the Lad. Not an eye was without its tear. The cheeks of the old Trapper were wet; and Herbert, touched by some memory or overcome by the pathos of the music, was actually sobbing. The old man, with a tread as light as a moccasined foot could make, stepped softly to the side of the Lad and taking him by the arm--while the company rose as one man--motioned to Henry with his hand, and then, without a word, the Trapper and Herbert and "The Man Who Didn't Know Much" passed out of the room, and taking boat, shoved off and glided from sight in the blue darkness of the overhanging night, amid whose eastern gloom the great, luminous, mellow-hearted stars of the morning were already aflame.

[The end]
W. H. H. Murray's short story: The Ball

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