FullReads

In his egoism of self-analysis and open confession, I am sure he did not realize how far he was going, until she buried her face in her hands.

Then he stepped across the room and stood before me as she rested her face in her hands against my breast.

“It was not especially clever–the last struggle against myself. I had never known such a woman before. I suppose if I had, I should have tortured her to death to strike new chords out of her nature,–and wept at my work! I had not the courage to tear myself abruptly away. I suggested an hour of the opera–I gave her the public as a protector–and they sang ‘Faust.’ It was then that, knowing myself so well, I looked out into the auditorium and saw you! It was Providence that put you in my way. I thought it was accident. I am sure I need say no more?”

I shook my head.

He leaned over her a moment. He gently took her hands from her face. Her eyelids trembled. For one brief moment she opened her eyes to his.

“You have given me one sweet day,” he murmured. “Some part of your soul has called its music out of mine. That offspring of a miraculous sympathy will live immortal when all else of our two lives is forgotten. Remember to-day as a dream–and me as a shadow there–” he stopped abruptly. I felt her head fall forward. She had swooned.

Together we looked into the beautiful colorless face.

I loved music as I loved light. I was an artist myself. A great musician–and this man was one–was to me the greatest achievement of Art and Living.

I did not refuse the hand he held out. I buried mine in it.

I did not smile nor mistrust, nor misunderstand the tears in his eyes, nor despise him because I knew they would soon enough be dry. I did not doubt his sincerity when he said, “I have never done so bitter a thing as say ‘good-bye’ to this–though I know but too well such are not for me.”

He bent over her, as if he would take her in his arms.

She was unconscious. I felt tempted to put her there. I knew I loved her as he could never love–yet I pitied him the more for that.

“Tell her,” he whispered, “tell her, when she shall have forgotten this–as I hope she will–that for this hour at least I loved her; that losing her I am liable to love her long,–so we shall never meet again. I shall never cease to be grateful to the Providence that threw you in my way–after to-night. To-night I could curse it and my conscience with a right good will.” With an effort he straightened himself. “You can afford to forgive me,” he said, “for I–I envy you with all my heart.”–And he was gone.

I heard his voice as he spoke to the waiter outside. I listened to his step as he descended the stairs. He had passed out of our life forever.

That was years ago.

She has long been dead.

He was not to blame if the sunshine that danced in music out of the eyes of the woman I loved never quite came back again. We were, all the same, happy together in our way.

He was not to blame if it was written in the big book of Fate that it should be his heart, and not mine, that should read the song she bore in her soul.

Something must be sacrificed for Art. We sacrificed our first illusions–and the Song he read will sing on when even Rodriguez is but a tradition.