THE WANDERER'S NIGHT SONG

New Zealand Tablet, 9 July 1908, Page 3

THE WANDERER'S NIGHT SONG

WANDERERS The district extending along the upper declivities of th* Jura Mountains is called Revermont. It is a Fertile land, watered by innumerable springs, where prosperous villages dominate on one side the plains below, often veiled in fog, arid on the other commands the roads leading to the mountains. A' rich vegetation covers the slopes of Revermont. Woods of fir and oak adjoin the avenues of walnut trees and carefully-tended vines. The varied aspects of the mountains, sometimes rugged, sometimes smooth and verdant, the horizon of Bresse, which in foggy weather recalls that of the sea, the perpetual murmur of the fountains'and streams that one meets at every step give this fair land an irresistible charm. It is a land where one would wish to live and die, the eyes fixed in the celestial plains, without other care than to cultivate one's fields and to obey the signal of the church belt, which resounding in the calm air and awakening at morn and eve all the echoes, commands us: Praise God. In the autumn of 1854, a young landscape painter, named Henri Rosen, was travelling through this country. He- was journeying on foot, accompanied by a large spaniel; he never knew in the morning where he would sleep that evening; he never asked his way, but allowed himself to be guided by his tastes, and stopped at the places that were pleasing to him. There he drew and painted, and thanks to his agreeable counter^ ance, his cheerful nature, and a well-filled purse, always met with obliging hosts. He was accustomed to spend thus the summer time, now m one country, now in another. In the winter he worked in his studio in Paris, and sold his pictures to a clever dealer, who scarcely paid him a quarter of the price for which he speedily sold them. But Rosen did not get disturbed in consequence Passionately devoted to his art, without family, -and determined to remain unmarried, he had no other ambition than to be able to travel, and his pictures cost him so little labor, he was so persuaded of their inferiority mat he disdainfully called them withered leaves, and much preferred them ip his rough sketches. As to the latter, he would not havr parted with v -m\ for anything, and when he wished to ?'r>; h'-vself some hour. <crepose and real pleasure X hvli d nne of his, fro-ids, who v/aa a musician, installed h«r/, „t the piano, lit the lamp, and g- ,- him to play sometimes Ha>drs, sometimes Mozart, or Beathoven] whilst he gazed at certain landscape sketches wherein his eye found once more all the beauties of the original. 4 Look,' he said one day to his friend Geraldy, ' look at this study of a hawthorn bush on the brink of a well, and thte little fair-haired child floating on a nutshell on the surface.* 'Oh!' said Geraldy, 'it is a well in Normandy. Thi* waters run smooth in that country. If you saw them in mine you would see a very different state of things. You wouW quickly leave Touraline and Normandy for countries more pic turesque and come into my country.' ' I should be glad to do so. Is your mother's chateau beautifully situated?' • Not exactly,' said Geraldy, reddening, ' but it is uncommon. I cannot venture to invite you there. My mother lives a very retired life, and r .will not go this year to Saint-Amour. I intend going into Germany and Italy.' Rosen changed the conversation, and proposed that Ms friend should perform a little music; but Geraldy recalled that he had promised to pay a visit that evening at the Princess of Serbia s, and took his leave with a somewhat embarrassed air The winter passed without his returning even once to Rosen's.. Tfie latter was in no way moved. Geraldy was for him but a passing acquaintance, such as one" meets twenty times a day in the hustle of Parisian lifer He more, often went into society through force of habit than through liking, and often said to himself on returning Home at night, and as he gaied from bid studio m the Quai Malaquis upon the River Seine, and-the public buildings lit up by the moon,- 'Madman that I am to go and so^beauS' "^ ** "^ °* ""^ Whc ?* *' moonM" »« As soon as the violets appeared in the spring he hastened tb' sell some of his paintings to the dealer, collected his slender luggage, and took down his travelling bag from its hook on the ' wall. The spaniel was sleeping near the stove. ' Pharibr,' said Rosen, ' look !' . ' The dog went to him yawning and stretching out his paws, but he had no sooner scented the bag than he began to jump about, and the studio resounded with his iovfui hartfo-

4» ' Yes* Phanor,' said Rosen, ~* we are about To set off, my old friend,; we are going to traverse the fields, to see the sun rise, to hear the nightingale and the lark.' And taking his hunting-horn, 'the artist began to sound a call capable of awakening the Seven Sleepers, Bharior, full of emulation, began to yelp, and their neighbor, M. Lendore, speedily made his appearance, sleeping gown and night cap, and angrily declared to Rosen his intention of having the landlord give him notice. Rosen made no end of excuses, 1 and assured him that he was going away for jsix months; that same day he quitted Paris without bidding anyone' farewell. He wandered through Auvergne and Charolais, and at the beginning of the vintage found himself quite close to Saint-Amour, and entered the village one beautiful .evening. It was not yet 10 o'clock, but every one had gone to bed. The murmur of the streams and the chirping of the crickets alone broke the silence of the night. Rosen saw two inns, but both were shut and without light, and continuing to advance through the village he arrived under the linden trees near the church. There he seated himself on a stone bench, and asked himself what he was going to do. He had taken a substantial supper, the weather was splendid, and he thought that he should perhaps do well to continue his journey, and go to see whether the inhabitants of Coligny were as drowsy as those of Saint-Amour. Whilst he was thus deliberating with himself, he perceived in the window of a small low-lit house, situated in the market place, a light which was weak and soft like that of a night light. ' Someone is ill there,' he said to himself. The slender shadow of a young girl passed across the white curtain. ' The patient is not alone,' he added. And for the first time the sense of his isolation took possession of the young artist's heart, He thought of the time when during his own illness his mother and his sisters watched beside him ; and he recalled the more distant time when his father, believing him to be asleep, said to his mother, ' See, how handsome he is!' His parents were no more. One of his sisters had married, and followed her husband to America ; the other was in a convent. The paternal house, closed for ever to him, belonged now to strangers. He was free, young, full of hope, talent, enthusiasm, but alone and wandering on the earth. One of Schubert's most beautiful melodies, ' The Wanderer's Night Song,' came to his mind with those thoughts. Almost unconsciously he began to sing, and his sonorous voice resounded in the calm night. Hardly had be begun when he heard a window being cautiously opened ; the shadow that he had previously noticed appeared again, and as soon as he had just, finished the door of the house was opened, and an aged woman, draped in black, approached Rosen timidly. 4 Monsieur,' she said to him, ' are you not Henri Rosen. Are you not the friend of Leopold Geraldy?' ' Certainly, madame,' he said, astonished. ' How did you know me?' ' Leopold recognised your voice,' said the old lady. 'Geraldy here!' exclaimed Rosen, ' I thought he was in Germany.' 'Heis at home, and very ill, Monsieur. I entreat you to visit him.' 'Oh ! Madame,' said the young man. ' I dare not present myself at your house at such an hour. I was about to go to an inn, and to-morrow I shall have the honor of paying you a visit.' 1 Come to our house,' said the lady. ' Alas ! night no longer exists for me ; for a long while my son spends sleepless nights. He desires to see you. The least contfariety causes him alarming attacks. For mercy's sake, come quickly.' The poor mother led Rosen to' her house. As he ascended the wooden staircase Rosen could not refrain from a smile when he thought of Leopold's statements in speaking to his friends in Paris of his mother's chateau. They entered. The patient,' sitting up in bed, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling with fever, exclaimed on seeing Rosen : ' I said that it was surely he!- -O, my dear Rosen, come speak to me about Paris ! " I will be >. back there' in about aya v fortnight's time. My" opera has been accepted ;lam on the road to glory" and td' fortune 1 Your voice has recalled* to me the festivals and concerts of last winter^ How delighted I am to see you ! lam dying of weariness. You will relate to me

all that has happened .in the world since I became confined here. prepare a good supper and a comfortable bed for Rosen.I am anxious for him to stay here. Rosen, do tell me the news 1' _ . 'I- know that the weather has been splendid -all thesummer,' said Rosen, ' and that for the last five months I have not looked- into a paper, than.* goodness ! I like much better to contemplate, and to paint the marvels which a kind Providence has created than* to distend myself with the follies of men. If I had, like you, a cosy home in a beautiful district, a mother, and a sister, like her I see here, I would never go to Paris.' ' Nevertheless,' said Geraldy, ' it is there only one can live. I will return there ; I wish to be there before the winter. You will wait for me, Rosen, and we shall set off together.' ' For that,' said the little sister, ' you must be good, brother. You speak too much, and you will increase your fever.' And she covered him up and embraced him as though he were a child. ' Come, Monsieur Rosen, I am going to serve your supper." And, leading him to an adjoining room, she served him sdrnc refreshments with so frank a grace that the young painter' thought of those angels that Fra Angelico has represented bringing bread to the religious of the Order of St. Dominic. Henriette Geraldy was at this time about sixteen years old, but her small figure, her short and curling hair, gave her the appearance of a child of twelve, and Rosen spoke to her with quite a paternal familiarity. ' I have already supped, my dear young lady,' he said to her; ' do not give yourself so much trouble on my account.' 'Oh, Monsieur!' said Henriette, 'I beg of you to accept at least a glass of syrup ; it was my mother who made it, and it is very good. If you only knew how happy we arc to see the pleasure your arrival gives my brother.' Rosen took the glass, and tho young girl gave Phanor a large piece of cake. Madame Geraldy soon rejoined them. 'My son appears to be much more at ease,' she said. Oh, Monsieur ! what sorrow for me to see the illi"-'on^ ot this poor child !' 'They are a good omen,' sa : J I.usen ; 'you will see that he will recover.' ' May God gram ii,' said the poor mother; 'but, monsieur, I entreat of you that no exaggerated discretion may lead you to refuse my son's invitation. May with us as long as you can ;it will be a deed of charity. You will help us to divert the thoughts of this poor child, and our environs are so beautiful that you will find abundance for the exercise of your pencil. Leopold likes you so much 1 - Often he has spoken to us of you, and of the happy hours he spent in your studio. Will you not stay with us?' Rosen could not refuse the offer of this afflicted mother ; he therefore took up his abode with them, and set himself to aid in nursing the patient with so much skill, good behaviour, and gaiety that Leopold was delighted. The latter, unreasonable as those unwell often are, could not bear the idea that his friend bhould leave him. It was necessary that Rosen should be always at hand, to sing to him the airs he loved, to talk to him of Paris, and to cai-ry him from one room to another so that he might sit in the sunshine. Nothing was good, nothing was to his satisfaction, unless it was given or done by Rosen. His mother and sister would have easily been made jealous by so exaggerated an affection- were there a place in those devoted hearts for a personal sentiment, but, happy at seeing the patient growing better, they constantly testified to Rosen »he gratitude they felt. Rosen, foreseeing that his stay at Saint-Amour would last for some time, wrote to Paris to have sent on to him some things of which he stood in need. He requested the person who was to forward him the parcel to enclose therein a box of sweetmeats, and when the parcel arrived he opened it at Geraldy's bedside. The latter, with all the joy of a- child, began tasting the Parisian delicacies, as he took them out of their wrappers. But he had the address to place aside unobserved a newspaper that had been wrapped round a box of preserved' fruit, and to hide it under his pillow. A little while after he said he desired to sleep, and wished to be left alone.- His mother,- sister, and Rosen went down to the parlor and began arranging the various - *things that had come from -Paris. Suddenly a piercing cry from the sick man's room made them tremble. They rushed upstairs to him, and found he had- fainted. More ' than an hour passed before he recovered consciousness', and delirium succeeded the fainting fit.

Whilst lending- his aid, Rosen had taken possession and hidden from Madame Geraldy 's view the journal' which Leopold held in, his hand. • /.'.•" ' A physician came, and he said, in private to Rosen, as .the latter led him downstairs from the patient's room.: ■ ■ ' This crisis will probably be the last." Prepare his family for tKe worst. The unhappy young man's confessor .should be sent for.' . This task terrified Rosen. He hadn't the courage to speak immediately about it to the mother, and he went and seated himself at the end of the garden. The leaves had almost all fallen from the bushes, and . some pale roses alone hung upon" the almost denuded branches. The cottage, clad with vines of a brilliant purple, was looking bright and cheerful' in the sunshine. 'What sorrow is under that roof!' said Rosen to himself. ' Why did Leopold ever leave it ? . But what did he learn from this fatal paper?' He opened the newspaper, and at. a place greased and torn he read the two following paragraphs :. ' By superior orders, the Royal Academy of Music bas^ust. received and placed in rehearsal a grand opera composed Ly Prince Murtori. This indefinitely adjourns the performance of Geraldy's opera, " The Prince of Sicily," although accepted three months ago. It is stated, further, that Geraldy has died of a malady of a chest at Pisa.' . And further on : j ' A fashionable throng assembled yesterday in the Church of the Madeleine, and the most conspicuous financiers mingled "' with many artistic celebrities. The fair songstress whom all Paris had been applauding during the last three years, Mile. Estrella Diaz, was wedded to the wealthy banker, M. Dupre, widower, by his first marriage, of Mile, de Parthenay. The witnesses were M , etc' * It is the icy hand of death, is that?' said Rosen to himself, in consideration. ' I must at once speak to this poor mother. ' He walked towards the house. Mme. Geraldy was coming to meet him. She was very pale, and said to him : * I did not know till now how wretched I am, monsieur. I knew that my son was ruined, I knew that he was going lo die, but I did not know that he had ceased to be a Christian. I have just heard him blaspheme. That is the worst of tuv griefs. Oh! monsieur, what is it that has befallen him?' ' Let us go to him,' said Rosen. ' I will speak to him.' They entered his room. Henriette was weeping on her knees beside her brother's bed, and the sick man, on seeing them enter, exclaimed : ' All is shattered, all ! Oh, Rosen ! No more hope. They tell me I am dying. God is without pity. And they want me to pray to Him! Never!' * We will pray for you,' said Rosen, ' and God will pardon you. Unhappy man! Remember how you have lived! Who,if not yourself, has dug the abyss under your feet?' ' Let me alone,' said Geraldy, your words are cruel. Let all leave the room ; I wish to die alone. ' They v obeyed, affrighted, and waited out of sight of" the dying man ; but his sister, drawing him gently, folded him in her arms, and said to him : ' Would 3 r ou drive me away, too?' He embraced her, and melted into tears. She watched beside him all that night, and he. refused to ■ se« his mother and his friend Rosen. * Do not insist on his seeing you,' said the physician; ' in a few days more he will ask for you. He may live for some weeks longer, but he must be spared all emotion.' Three days passed away thus. Rosen said to Mme. Geraldy : ■ ' I am of no use here^ If. you will permit me, I will go and see at. Ars. that priest, of whom -so much- is said, and I will beg of him Leopold's recovery.' . ~ -- . _ ; « I will go with you, dear, .sir,' said the mother. ' For a long time I have been wishing to make the same pilgrimage.' * Let us depart immediately,' said the young man ; 'it will be easy for your daughter to hide our absence from your son.'They set out that same night, and on the second morning after their departure they arrived at Ars. A^ was usual, a large crowd was awaiting the holy priest in the church. He entered, looking more like an apparition than a living being. His vestments floated about him like those of a shadow, and his luminous and expressive eyes lit up his pale and transparent visage with a supernatural glow. After praying before the

altar he turned and directed a long and earnest gaze on those present. There were gathered " all ' varieties of human misery, - the infirm, "the sick, and those "whose hearts were - tortured by hidden sorrows and troubles. The holy priest went directly to Rosen.. ' Follow me,' he said. ■ And he led „• him into, the sacristy. ," At the expiration.; of- a short time the young man came- forth, filled wtih emotionT and said to Mme. Geraldy : • ' The Saint desires to see your' ~ .. She rose, trembling, and walked slowly to the sacristy. When she "returned,- they heard ■ Mass, which - was i * said ' by the holy priest, and both" communicated ; 'and when Mass was over they did not delay in -leaving by -the carriage- that-' had 'brought them. Rosen did not ven'ture^to ask any question ; he himself awaited with anxiety the moment of their arrival. _ They reached Madame Geraldy 's in the evening. Nothing -had changed in the external aspect of the dwelling. The old servant, Josette, was waiting for them on the threshold. She ran towards them. , - ' Rejoice,' rhadame, Monsieur Leopold has asked for a priest. This morning, at "9 o'clock,-. I went for Abbe. Albert ; ' your",, son " made his confession to him, and he has received Holy Communion wi,th the piety of an angel. He is very tranquil now ; you will see he will recover.' The mother raised her eyes towards heaven — eyes weary from weeping, and without being able to utter a word entered the house. _ . - The brother and sister were praying together. On seeing his mother, Leopold stretched" Out his arms towards her. Rosen remained on the threshold. 'My mother,' said the sick man.. ' What did the ' holy priest of Ars say to you ? Shall I recover ? ' 'My son, 'said she, 'between this fleeting life and life . eternal what must the choice be?' ' I accept death,' replied Leopold. ' I offer up to God the sacrifice of my life; may it wash away my sins!' ' Leopold,' said Rosen, weeping, ' forgive me .for the cruet words I spoke the other day.' ' I thank you for them,' said the sick man. ' They have awakened my soul from the sleep of death.' * A Jittle while after, Leopold calmly expired. He Tiad rerequested his friend to leave him alone for some moments with his mother and sister, and to go and sing outside the house the ' Wanderer's Song.' Rosen complied with the caprice of the dying man. He sang it in the silence of the night, just as he had sung it the first time that Leopold had heard it. When he returned, Leopold thanked him, and did not live to see the return of day. After he had fulfilled the last duties to his dead friend, Rosen - took his leave of Mme. Geraldy and her daughter. ' May God reward you, Monsieur Rosen !' said the bereaved mother to him. ' May He reward you for the kindness and goodness you have shown my son ! Farewell, dear, very dear friend of my poor child!' - ' If you say farewell to me I will not go,' he said, growing pale. ' Say to me au revoir, or I will stay. 1 . . '.Au revoir,' said Henriette, weeping, and he departed. A year afterwards, on the anniversary of her pilgrimage Jo Ars, Mme. Geraldy once more repaired there, this time accompanied by her daughter. She entered in her turn the confessional of the holy priest. He recognised her, and spoke" to her for a long while. At the sound of his voice, celestial peace seemed to descend into the heart of the poor mother. At the moment when she was. about to leave the confessional he said to her : ' Go and bring your son ; he is in the church. ' ' Alas !' she said, thinking that the hoiy priest had forgotten. - 'I no longer have a son.' • ' 'Go and bring him immediately,' said the priest ; * your son is there.' "_ * _ _ The mother rose, bathed in tears,- and beheld at a distance "Rosen; who was entering the cKurch. - i She understood then. Two months later Henriette left off ..her mourning garments in order to assume the white attire of a bride.—' Pilot.'