Part 13

Klin, near Moscow, was the home of one of the busiest of men. It is here that the late Russian composer, Tschaïkowsky, lived and worked, devoting the greater part of the day to his art. Nine o'clock every morning found him hard at work, and it was one before he stopped for a light lunch. Two hours every afternoon were rigidly set aside for one of the few recreations in which he used to indulge, viz., walking; and it was during these daily strolls that most of the sketches of his pieces were conceived, and entered into a note-book which was always forthcoming. Home was reached soon after four, and from five to half-past eight was employed in arranging and setting in order the sketches jotted down during the walk.

A piano, he considered, is not absolutely necessary, and he composed much without the use of one. For instance, on a journey, or long voyage, or when rusticating in some primitive, far-away little hamlet, where the peacefulness and quietude are suggestive of composition, but where the running brook does duty for a piano and you fit your melodies to the sighing of the wind among the fir trees. Still, the instrument helped sometimes the development of his musical ideas, and generally when convenient he made use of one. "I believe," he said, "the creating power of music to be a precious gift of Nature, which cannot be obtained by work and study, but only improved and lighted by musical sciences, besides being purely _empérique_. With the belief that composers often work better and produce finer results when put under a certain amount of pressure the professor agrees, pinning his belief on history, which tells us of many masterpieces being done thus.

"I have never thought," he resumed, "of the reasons explaining why England, who produced such great poets, has had, comparatively speaking, but few musicians. It seems to me that the idea that the English are not gifted for music cannot be considered as 'definitive.' Who knows that a musical Shakespeare will not be produced? You have already men of much promise and whose work is very serious."

Of his own compositions, Tschaïkowsky considered his opera "La Dame de Pique" the best work he had ever done, an opinion which is shared by many of his admirers.

NOTE.--Cowen's opera, referred to in our February number as "Sigrid," should have been "Signa," which had not been produced when this article was written.

THE ZEALOUS SENTINEL

AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS

It was a chill and cheerless day towards the end of November of the year 1870. The siege of Paris was in full tide of determinate execution. For two months, and a little more, the German host had environed the city with a circle of glistening bayonets and loud-mouthed cannons, cutting off intercourse with the outside world, and effectually preventing the incoming of provisions; the smoke and fumes of burning powder filled the air; while shot and shell rained down upon the doomed metropolis, by day and by night.

Near the corner of the Boulevard Mazas and the Rue de Bercy was situated the wine-shop of Victor Rameau, a popular resort of the middling classes, but patronized by men of high standing, and often sought by those of the lowest strata of society. On this chill November day the spacious apartment on the street level was filled by a motley assemblage. There were present representatives of almost every trade, profession, and calling, though the military element predominated.

At one of the small oaken tables against the wall sat two men, with whom we have particularly to do; and at the table next to them, also against the wall, sat a third. Of the two, one was a sergeant of the National Guard, named Jacques Carlier, a middle-aged man, with a heavy red moustache, and a head of closely-clipped red hair. His face was likewise very red, and his two eyes were as nearly of the same fiery colour as they could be.

The guardsman's companion was a short, thick-set man, also of middle age, with dark brown hair and a full beard of the same colour. His stoutness was peculiar. It did not seem to be fat, but an unusual size of body and limb--somewhat as though in his youth a ponderous weight had fallen upon his head and shoulders and knocked him into that squat, uncouth figure. His hair was thick and tangled; his face, where the full beard did not hide it, darkly tanned and seemingly unwashed; and his clothing of the very worst--worn and soiled and ragged. He had given his name as Pierre Dubois, claiming to be from Ardennes.

The third man--he at the other table--was Colonel de Brèze, of the National Guard. Both he and the sergeant were in uniform, and, saving only the rags, neither of them could boast of a personal appearance very much better than was that of the poor wayfarer from Ardennes.

Pierre Dubois had dark lines under his eyes; a look of pain and distress marked his face; while a deep-reaching, rasping cough ever and anon shook his frame and interrupted his speech.

"I'd enlist this moment," he said, "if I could be put on duty under cover, out of the way of this miserable wintry wind. But what should I be good for in the trenches, or at the breast-works? You can see for yourself that I shouldn't last a week."

"Aye," returned the sergeant, "I see very plainly that you wouldn't be good for much in an exposed position. I should say consumption was carrying you off about as fast as it could."

"So--it--(a severe fit of coughing)--is."

"Are you fit to enlist at all?"

"Well, no; I do not suppose I am. But I'll be frank with you. I have a spice of the man Adam in me. It is Vengeance. I was at Sedan, as I have told you, and the Germans made me a prisoner. I wasn't fit to march: I could hardly stand; so they pricked me up with their sabre bayonets. Then, when I was thrown into a dirty prison, and begged for a bit of medicine for my cough, they gave me curses and a kick. I swore then, if ever the opportunity should be mine, I would volunteer to stand sentinel over a squad of German prisoners. You've got those fellows in limbo, haven't you?"

"Yes, plenty of them."

"And you've got strong, able, well men standing guard over them?"

"Yes, we have."

"Then, there's my opportunity. Put me there, and I'll do double duty, if I can stand it. At all events, I can perform the duties of a sentinel just as well as any living man."

At this point Colonel Brèze, who had overheard, faced about.

"Sergeant," he said, "we want this man. I want him at La Force."

At the sound of the name of that celebrated prison, a bright light gleamed in the provincial's eyes, and he quickly hid his face behind his beer-mug to conceal the emotion he could not keep back.

The sergeant nodded, and then to the man himself the colonel continued:--

"You are used to military duty, my good man?"

"Yes, Colonel. I was a conscript when I was twenty, and served four years; and I enlisted after that. I would be now with Trochu, in all probability, had not the Germans captured me at Sedan, when out on a sortie, and held me until I escaped."

"How did you manage to get through their lines when you entered our beleaguered city?"

"They did not see me. I crawled in through the rain, on a dark night."

"And you would like to do guard duty over German prisoners, eh?"

"I could like nothing better. I have prayed that the privilege might be mine."

"Very well, it shall be yours. I have command of the guard of La Force. I want you there."

On that same November day--the day on which we heard the conversation between the colonel and the sergeant and the provincial--a prisoner sat in one of the strongest and most gloomy of the cells of La Force. Most of the cells were occupied by several persons, some of them containing as many as could comfortably lie down therein; but this man had been condemned to death, and placed in solitary confinement. He was a young man, not over thirty, fair-faced and handsome. He was of German birth--a German of Darmstadt--and though clad in the garb of a French labourer, he was yet a gentleman of education and refinement; his name, as had been learned from marked articles in his possession, Otho Maximilian.

Poor Maximilian! In his soldier's ardour and love of country he had volunteered to his Prince to enter the enemy's lines and bring away a correct draught of the outer and inner fortifications, together with proper plans of the disposition of troops. And all this he had come very near to doing; but, alas! not quite. Had he been content to carry away his observations and computations in his head, and made the visible signs of his espionage in the presence of his Prince, all might have been well. He had gained the interior of the city and its free range; he had made plans of all important things he wished to communicate, and he was apprehended and searched, with those neatly drawn plans upon his person.

Poor Otho! So young and so fair, with wife and three children praying for him, and waiting in the Fatherland, thus to die! He shed no tears; he gave voice to no complaints; he was sure his comrades would keep his memory green; that his Prince would bless him for what he had tried to do, and that his dearly loved ones would seek consolation in the thought that he had given his life to his country.

On the day after to-morrow he was to die. He was not to be shot, like a soldier, nor beheaded, as kings and noblemen had been; he was to suffer the ignominy of hanging. The thought gave him keenest torture.

That dismal day drew to a close, and, at eventide, when the attendant came with his food, he made one last earnest appeal for writing materials, that he might write a brief letter to his wife. But such a grant would be a violation of prison law; it could not be done. Then he closed his lips, resolved not to speak again save to the Heavenly Father.

The night passed, and another dark and dismal day. Another evening came, and another night shut down over the great prison. Otho's last night of earth, as the few grim marks on his dungeon wall told him.

At eleven o'clock he threw himself upon his hard straw pallet and tried to sleep. He heard the solemn bells strike the midnight hour, and a few moments later the warder of that corridor opened the little wicket in his door and looked in upon him.

Had our prisoner been on the outside of his cell at that particular time, he would have seen a movement on the part of the sentinel strange and unusual. This sentinel had softly and noiselessly followed the warder to that door, had stood very near while he looked in at the wicket, and then, when he had started on to the next cell, he leaped upon him as a cat would strike its prey. A single blow of a sand-bag upon the warder's head felled him to the granite pavement as though a lightning-bolt had smitten him. On the next instant the sentinel was upon his knees, those knees upon the fallen man's breast, with a folded napkin, in which was a broad, flat, fine sponge, pressed tightly over the mouth and nostrils. A brief space so, then the guardsman took from his breast pocket a small flask and renewed the chloroform in the sponge.

Otho Maximilian had heard the opening of the wicket, and had seen the face that had peered in upon him. He had again closed his eyes, when he heard a dull, heavy thud, as though a ponderous body had fallen upon the adamantine floor. The sound was so unusual, so strange and unaccountable, that he was startled--not with fear, but with a nameless, shapeless spectre of the unseen. He arose and bent his ear attentively.

Ere long he heard the light clatter of a key as it was inserted into the lock of his door, and presently the door was opened and a man came in--a man habited in the uniform of the National Guard.

"--Sh!" whispered the guardsman. "Speak not, but do as I bid you. Throw off that ragged blouse. Sacré!--will you obey? Bah!--it is a friend! Now act, and quickly!"

"What!--you?--Mar----"

"Will you stop your tongue and obey? We will talk by-and-by."

Without another word the prisoner pulled off his blouse and threw it aside. At the same time the guardsman stripped off his uniform, threw off waist-belt and baldric, with the sword; then the coat with its gaudy facings; then the pants, gaiters, and the shoes; and he bade the other to get himself into them with all possible dispatch, which was done.

And yet the guardsman stood in full uniform as before. He had come doubly clad, even to the hat and an extra pompon. And there was still another dress inside the uniform in which he now appeared. No wonder he had looked strangely rotund and squat when we met him in M. Rameau's wine-shop.

"Come! Look out that your sword does not clank, yet be ready to use it if need be. Now follow me. Look neither to the right nor to the left. Are you ready? So! Forward! March!"

As they passed out upon the corridor, closing the door behind them, Otho saw the warder prone upon the pavement, and his sensitive olfactories detected the presence of the powerful anæsthetic that held him in thrall.

On that corridor they were at liberty to move as they pleased--for though there was a post of observation commanding that whole floor, yet the officer whose duty it was to occupy it was the warder who now lay senseless, and whose keys the sentinel had taken into his own possession.

"Mark you," whispered the liberator, when they had reached the head of the stairs and were about to descend, "we have our greatest risk directly ahead. The sentinels below have just come on, and may not be wakeful enough to be over-inquisitive. We must make them believe that we have been relieved, and that we stopped behind to help M. Joubert examine a cell."

"Will they not know at once that I am not a true National Guardsman?" asked Otho.

"Not if you hide your face as best as you can. They know not me. I came on last evening for the first time. I only entered the service yesterday; enlisted on purpose for this bit of work. Oh, God, send that it prove a success! Now, forward! march!"

At the foot of the stairs was a door, which the zealous sentinel unlocked with a key taken from the pocket of the warder. As they were ready to step forth, he called out, imitating the gruff tones of the warder as closely as possible:--

"There--off you go! and I thank you for your help!"

"You are entirely welcome; but you've robbed me of nigh half an hour's sleep, nevertheless; good-night, M. Joubert."

The last words were upon his lips as he stepped forth into the lower hall, and the sentinel there standing supposed, naturally enough, that he was addressing the warder of the above.

"Now, comrade," said our experimenting guardsman, to the sentinel there stationed, "if you will let us out, we shall be grateful. M. Joubert has kept us to help him care for a prisoner who was inclined to be restive."

"Certainly, comrade." And, without hesitation, the honest sentinel ushered the twain forth into the vestibule, whence they made way to the open court.

"Now, my boy, mark me once more: I am Pierre Dubois; you are Julien Bizet--both of the National Guard. I have in my pocket a pass, signed by Colonel de Brèze--or it will answer for his signature. I think this will set us free. Come!"

Boldly they entered the office of the night keeper, where Pierre exhibited his pass. Fortune favoured the adventurers at every turn. This keeper was a plethoric, heavy-eyed man, dull and sleepy. He read the pass and gave it back, and, with only a grunt and a growl at being disturbed, he got up and opened the way for the anxious twain to go free.

In the uniform of the National Guard, and with the pass of Colonel Brèze, it was an easy matter for the fugitives to make their way to the outer fortifications, whence they had no difficulty in slipping through into the German lines, where they were received with great rejoicing.

During the winter of 1875-76, Colonel Alphonse de Brèze was called, by business of State, to the Prussian capital, and while there he went to the theatre. The play advertised on the occasion of his first visit was called "The Guardsman," the leading character of which was a rollicking, fun-making soldier of the French National Guard, said character being enacted by a Berlin favourite, Martin OEsau. When the guardsman made his appearance on the stage, De Brèze was electrified. With the first effort of thought he recognised the man--his recruit of Rameau's wine-shop!--his zealous sentinel of La Force!--his Pierre Dubois!

De Brèze could honour and respect brave men. A few days later he called upon M. OEsau at his home, and spent a pleasant hour; and not long thereafter he met Otho Maximilian at the same place.

"My friends," the colonel said, as he put down his empty wine-glass, "had you seen and heard me on that November morning, five years ago, when my prisoner was demanded of me, and I found an empty cell and a sentinel missing, you would have been slow to believe that an event like this could ever enter into the story of our lives!"

"Thank high Heaven for peace and for friendship!" was OEsau's fervent response.

And they filled up and emptied their glasses to the sentiment.

_The Queer Side of Things._

There had been silence for twenty minutes in the circle of our weekly convivial at the "Chain-Harve." The last word had been "ghosts"--or, more accurately, "ghostes." During that twenty minutes' silence, broken only by the puffing of pipes and the setting down of mugs, Mr. Coffin (who had been an undertaker, or something of that sort, up at London, and was considered the leading mind of the convivial club) had sat twinkling his eyes at the kettle-crane in a way that told those who knew him that something was to come out presently. At the end of the twenty minutes Peter broke the silence with:--

"He, he! Ghostes! Them's things as some folks thinks as ther' mebbe more in 'em ner is gen'ly thought--more'n wot some other folks thinks!"

Mr. Coffin transferred his twinkle to Peter, and then spread it over the company. But the company were engaged in twinkling for themselves--or, rather, in blinking (which was their substitute for twinkling)--at the kettle-crane. Most of them were wagging their heads very slowly from side to side.

"There's some as don't believe nothink," said old Billet.

"An' 'ow about Mrs. Skindle and them there lights down in the Low Medder?" said Peter.

"And 'ow about Master George's groom?" said Mr. Armstrong, of the Mill.

"Ar!" murmured the company.

Mr. Coffin had now completed the spreading of his twinkle over the company, and spoke:--

"It seems to me, gentlemen, that this club has a sort of duty in this very matter of ghosts and things. There's a great deal too much ignorance and superstition about."

The company, added to by the dropping in of occasional new arrivals, transferred their gaze--no longer a blink--to Mr. Coffin, in feeble surprise. Then, very gradually, the slow wag of the heads dissolved into a slow nod; as they said, very thoughtfully, "Ar!"

"It isn't only ghosts," continued Mr. Coffin. "It's superstition generally that it's our duty to put our foot down against. There's all sorts of nonsense about ill-luck from going under ladders, and spilling salt, and crossing knives--it's a sheer disgrace to the century!"

"Ar!" said the company, feebly.

"I'm glad you agree with me," went on Mr. Coffin, "because I've always felt strongly about the foolishness of these superstitions. Now, I was reading the other day in the paper about a club they have in London--it was there in my time, too; but that brought it to my mind. That club was established to ridicule those very superstitions; and they go at it with a vengeance when they are at it--regularly perspire over it, you might say. Well, now--why shouldn't we--this club--take up this matter too, just to show the people round about how sensible we are--eh?"

"Ar!" said the company.

"Very well, then, we couldn't have a more suitable occasion to inaugurate the new proceedings than to-night. This is Hallowe'en, gentlemen, the one night of the year on which people have the best chance of seeing ghosts--witches' night, you know; and what's more, there are just thirteen of us present, and that's another lucky thing; and what's more, Mr. Puter's yard dog has been howling all the evening, which is supposed to be a sign that somebody in this house will die shortly; and, by the way, I heard the death-watch most distinctly ticking in your parlour wall when I came in to-day, Peter; so, if you're as eager about the subject as I feel sure you are, why, there's no reason why we shouldn't begin at once."

"Why not?" murmured the company, very low and hesitatingly.

"Very well, then--those who are in favour of the new departure will indicate the same in the usual manner, by holding up their hands," said Mr. Coffin.

And he turned his eye on each of the company in turn, and as he did so, the one gazed at feebly held up his hand, and then dropped it as quickly as possible.

They had failed to notice, before he pointed it out, that they numbered just thirteen. The attendance at the club varied from time to time, owing to some of the frequenters living in neighbouring villages, and to other reasons.

So Mr. Coffin called for two knives and a salt-cellar; and then each one present was blindfolded in turn and made to go through a ceremony of initiation over the crossed knives and to spill some salt; after which Mr. Coffin entertained them with a discourse about ghosts, rising gravestones, banshees, corpse lights, and other things which it was the duty of the new club to ridicule.

"The time is approaching when the landlord will request us to leave the premises," said Mr. Coffin; "and, as you are aware, the first of us to rise to depart must, according to the superstition, die within the year: a most laughable superstition, of course!"

Mr. Coffin looked round. Each one whom he fixed with his eye chuckled feebly and whispered "Ar--o' course!"

"Who volunteers to rise first?" asked Mr. Coffin, fixing his twinkle on the kettle-crane.

There was a dead silence, broken by a low, blood-curdling, tremulous moan from the yard; a moan which swelled into a howl so prolonged that it seemed as though it would never cease. Then another dead silence, broken by a dreadful grating death-cry from the woods; only the cry of the screech-owl. Then the landlord looked in and said: "Time, gentlemen, please."

But no one stirred; Mr. Coffin's twinkle was still fixed upon the crane.

"I propose, brother Unbelievers," he said, "that Peter, as being the person in whose house the death-watch is ticking at present, is the fittest person to rise. This will give him a great opportunity of showing his contempt for absurd superstitions."

"That's right, anyhow--'ear! 'ear!" said the other eleven, quite heartily this time; and Peter desperately seized and emptied his glass of gin and water, and--pale as a sheet--slowly rose and buttoned his coat. As he did so, there resounded again, simultaneously, the howl of the yard dog and the death-cry of the screech-owl. Peter grinned a ghastly grin, wiped his brow, said tremulously, "Well--goo' night," and crawled out.

Then Mr. Coffin removed his twinkle once more from the crane, and rose, and beamed round upon the company.