“and it was summer, beautiful summer!” those were the closing words of thea’s favorite fairy tale, and she thought of them as she ran out into the world one saturday morning in may, her music book under her arm. she was going to the kohlers’ to take her lesson, but she was in no hurry.
it was in the summer that one really lived. then all the little overcrowded houses were opened wide, and the wind blew through them with sweet, earthy smells of garden-planting. the town looked as if it had just been washed. people were out painting their fences. the cottonwood trees were a-flicker with sticky, yellow little leaves, and the feathery tamarisks were in pink bud. with the warm weather came freedom for everybody. people were dug up, as it were. the very old people, whom one had not seen all winter, came out and sunned themselves in the yard. the double windows were taken off the houses, the tormenting flannels in which children had been encased all winter were put away in boxes, and the youngsters felt a pleasure in the cool cotton things next their skin.
thea had to walk more than a mile to reach the kohlers’ house, a very pleasant mile out of town toward the glittering sand hills,—yellow this morning, with lines of deep violet where the clefts and valleys were. she followed the sidewalk to the depot at the south end of the town; then took the road east to the little group of adobe houses where the mexicans lived, then dropped into a deep ravine; a dry sand creek, across which the railroad track ran on a trestle. beyond that gulch, on a little rise of ground that faced the open sandy plain, was the kohlers’ house, where professor wunsch lived. fritz kohler was the town tailor, one of the first settlers. he had moved there, built a little house and made a garden, when moonstone was first marked down on the map. he had three sons, but they now worked on the railroad and were stationed in distant cities. one of them had gone to work for the santa fé, and lived in new mexico.
mrs. kohler seldom crossed the ravine and went into the town except at christmas-time, when she had to buy presents and christmas cards to send to her old friends in freeport, illinois. as she did not go to church, she did not possess such a thing as a hat. year after year she wore the same red hood in winter and a black sunbonnet in summer. she made her own dresses; the skirts came barely to her shoe-tops, and were gathered as full as they could possibly be to the waistband. she preferred men’s shoes, and usually wore the cast-offs of one of her sons. she had never learned much english, and her plants and shrubs were her companions. she lived for her men and her garden. beside that sand gulch, she had tried to reproduce a bit of her own village in the rhine valley. she hid herself behind the growth she had fostered, lived under the shade of what she had planted and watered and pruned. in the blaze of the open plain she was stupid and blind like an owl. shade, shade; that was what she was always planning and making. behind the high tamarisk hedge, her garden was a jungle of verdure in summer. above the cherry trees and peach trees and golden plums stood the windmill, with its tank on stilts, which kept all this verdure alive. outside, the sage-brush grew up to the very edge of the garden, and the sand was always drifting up to the tamarisks.
every one in moonstone was astonished when the kohlers took the wandering music-teacher to live with them. in seventeen years old fritz had never had a crony, except the harness-maker and spanish johnny. this wunsch came from god knew where,—followed spanish johnny into town when that wanderer came back from one of his tramps. wunsch played in the dance orchestra, tuned pianos, and gave lessons. when mrs. kohler rescued him, he was sleeping in a dirty, unfurnished room over one of the saloons, and he had only two shirts in the world. once he was under her roof, the old woman went at him as she did at her garden. she sewed and washed and mended for him, and made him so clean and respectable that he was able to get a large class of pupils and to rent a piano. as soon as he had money ahead, he sent to the narrow gauge lodging-house, in denver, for a trunkful of music which had been held there for unpaid board. with tears in his eyes the old man—he was not over fifty, but sadly battered—told mrs. kohler that he asked nothing better of god than to end his days with her, and to be buried in the garden, under her linden trees. they were not american basswood, but the european linden, which has honey-colored blooms in summer, with a fragrance that surpasses all trees and flowers and drives young people wild with joy.
thea was reflecting as she walked along that had it not been for professor wunsch she might have lived on for years in moonstone without ever knowing the kohlers, without ever seeing their garden or the inside of their house. besides the cuckoo clock,—which was wonderful enough, and which mrs. kohler said she kept for “company when she was lonesome,”—the kohlers had in their house the most wonderful thing thea had ever seen—but of that later.
professor wunsch went to the houses of his other pupils to give them their lessons, but one morning he told mrs. kronborg that thea had talent, and that if she came to him he could teach her in his slippers, and that would be better. mrs. kronborg was a strange woman. that word “talent,” which no one else in moonstone, not even dr. archie, would have understood, she comprehended perfectly. to any other woman there, it would have meant that a child must have her hair curled every day and must play in public. mrs. kronborg knew it meant that thea must practice four hours a day. a child with talent must be kept at the piano, just as a child with measles must be kept under the blankets. mrs. kronborg and her three sisters had all studied piano, and all sang well, but none of them had talent. their father had played the oboe in an orchestra in sweden, before he came to america to better his fortunes. he had even known jenny lind. a child with talent had to be kept at the piano; so twice a week in summer and once a week in winter thea went over the gulch to the kohlers’, though the ladies’ aid society thought it was not proper for their preacher’s daughter to go “where there was so much drinking.” not that the kohler sons ever so much as looked at a glass of beer. they were ashamed of their old folks and got out into the world as fast as possible; had their clothes made by a denver tailor and their necks shaved up under their hair and forgot the past. old fritz and wunsch, however, indulged in a friendly bottle pretty often. the two men were like comrades; perhaps the bond between them was the glass wherein lost hopes are found; perhaps it was common memories of another country; perhaps it was the grapevine in the garden—knotty, fibrous shrub, full of homesickness and sentiment, which the germans have carried around the world with them.
as thea approached the house she peeped between the pink sprays of the tamarisk hedge and saw the professor and mrs. kohler in the garden, spading and raking. the garden looked like a relief-map now, and gave no indication of what it would be in august; such a jungle! pole beans and potatoes and corn and leeks and kale and red cabbage—there would even be vegetables for which there is no american name. mrs. kohler was always getting by mail packages of seeds from freeport and from the old country. then the flowers! there were big sunflowers for the canary bird, tiger lilies and phlox and zinnias and lady’s-slippers and portulaca and hollyhocks,—giant hollyhocks. beside the fruit trees there was a great umbrella-shaped catalpa, and a balm-of-gilead, two lindens, and even a ginka,—a rigid, pointed tree with leaves shaped like butterflies, which shivered, but never bent to the wind.
this morning thea saw to her delight that the two oleander trees, one white and one red, had been brought up from their winter quarters in the cellar. there is hardly a german family in the most arid parts of utah, new mexico, arizona, but has its oleander trees. however loutish the american-born sons of the family may be, there was never one who refused to give his muscle to the back-breaking task of getting those tubbed trees down into the cellar in the fall and up into the sunlight in the spring. they may strive to avert the day, but they grapple with the tub at last.
when thea entered the gate, her professor leaned his spade against the white post that supported the turreted dove-house, and wiped his face with his shirt-sleeve; someway he never managed to have a handkerchief about him. wunsch was short and stocky, with something rough and bear-like about his shoulders. his face was a dark, bricky red, deeply creased rather than wrinkled, and the skin was like loose leather over his neck band—he wore a brass collar button but no collar. his hair was cropped close; iron-gray bristles on a bullet-like head. his eyes were always suffused and bloodshot. he had a coarse, scornful mouth, and irregular, yellow teeth, much worn at the edges. his hands were square and red, seldom clean, but always alive, impatient, even sympathetic.
“morgen,” he greeted his pupil in a businesslike way, put on a black alpaca coat, and conducted her at once to the piano in mrs. kohler’s sitting-room. he twirled the stool to the proper height, pointed to it, and sat down in a wooden chair beside thea.
“the scale of b flat major,” he directed, and then fell into an attitude of deep attention. without a word his pupil set to work.
to mrs. kohler, in the garden, came the cheerful sound of effort, of vigorous striving. unconsciously she wielded her rake more lightly. occasionally she heard the teacher’s voice. “scale of e minor.... weiter, weiter!... immer i hear the thumb, like a lame foot. weiter... weiter, once... schön! the chords, quick!”
the pupil did not open her mouth until they began the second movement of the clementi sonata, when she remonstrated in low tones about the way he had marked the fingering of a passage.
“it makes no matter what you think,” replied her teacher coldly. “there is only one right way. the thumb there. ein, zwei, drei, vier,” etc. then for an hour there was no further interruption.
at the end of the lesson thea turned on her stool and leaned her arm on the keyboard. they usually had a little talk after the lesson.
herr wunsch grinned. “how soon is it you are free from school? then we make ahead faster, eh?”
“first week in june. then will you give me the ‘invitation to the dance’?”
he shrugged his shoulders. “it makes no matter. if you want him, you play him out of lesson hours.”
“all right.” thea fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled slip of paper. “what does this mean, please? i guess it’s latin.”
wunsch blinked at the line penciled on the paper. “wherefrom you get this?” he asked gruffly.
“out of a book dr. archie gave me to read. it’s all english but that. did you ever see it before?” she asked, watching his face.
“yes. a long time ago,” he muttered, scowling. “ovidius!” he took a stub of lead pencil from his vest pocket, steadied his hand by a visible effort, and under the words:
“lente currite, lente currite, noctis equi,”
he wrote in a clear, elegant gothic hand,—
“go slowly, go slowly, ye steeds of the night.”
he put the pencil back in his pocket and continued to stare at the latin. it recalled the poem, which he had read as a student, and thought very fine. there were treasures of memory which no lodging-house keeper could attach. one carried things about in one’s head, long after one’s linen could be smuggled out in a tuning-bag. he handed the paper back to thea. “there is the english, quite elegant,” he said, rising.
mrs. kohler stuck her head in at the door, and thea slid off the stool. “come in, mrs. kohler,” she called, “and show me the piece-picture.”
the old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening gloves, and pushed thea to the lounge before the object of her delight. the “piece-picture,” which hung on the wall and nearly covered one whole end of the room, was the handiwork of fritz kohler. he had learned his trade under an old-fashioned tailor in magdeburg who required from each of his apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his shop, each apprentice had to copy in cloth some well known german painting, stitching bits of colored stuff together on a linen background; a kind of mosaic. the pupil was allowed to select his subject, and fritz kohler had chosen a popular painting of napoleon’s retreat from moscow. the gloomy emperor and his staff were represented as crossing a stone bridge, and behind them was the blazing city, the walls and fortresses done in gray cloth with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes and minarets. napoleon rode his white horse; murat, in oriental dress, a bay charger. thea was never tired of examining this work, of hearing how long it had taken fritz to make it, how much it had been admired, and what narrow escapes it had had from moths and fire. silk, mrs. kohler explained, would have been much easier to manage than woolen cloth, in which it was often hard to get the right shades. the reins of the horses, the wheels of the spurs, the brooding eyebrows of the emperor, murat’s fierce mustaches, the great shakos of the guard, were all worked out with the minutest fidelity. thea’s admiration for this picture had endeared her to mrs. kohler. it was now many years since she used to point out its wonders to her own little boys. as mrs. kohler did not go to church, she never heard any singing, except the songs that floated over from mexican town, and thea often sang for her after the lesson was over. this morning wunsch pointed to the piano.
“on sunday, when i go by the church, i hear you sing something.”
thea obediently sat down on the stool again and began, “come, ye disconsolate.” wunsch listened thoughtfully, his hands on his knees. such a beautiful child’s voice! old mrs. kohler’s face relaxed in a smile of happiness; she half closed her eyes. a big fly was darting in and out of the window; the sunlight made a golden pool on the rag carpet and bathed the faded cretonne pillows on the lounge, under the piece-picture. “earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal,” the song died away.
“that is a good thing to remember,” wunsch shook himself. “you believe that?” looking quizzically at thea.
she became confused and pecked nervously at a black key with her middle finger. “i don’t know. i guess so,” she murmured.
her teacher rose abruptly. “remember, for next time, thirds. you ought to get up earlier.”
that night the air was so warm that fritz and herr wunsch had their after-supper pipe in the grape arbor, smoking in silence while the sound of fiddles and guitars came across the ravine from mexican town. long after fritz and his old paulina had gone to bed, wunsch sat motionless in the arbor, looking up through the woolly vine leaves at the glittering machinery of heaven.
“lente currite, noctis equi.”
that line awoke many memories. he was thinking of youth; of his own, so long gone by, and of his pupil’s, just beginning. he would even have cherished hopes for her, except that he had become superstitious. he believed that whatever he hoped for was destined not to be; that his affection brought ill-fortune, especially to the young; that if he held anything in his thoughts, he harmed it. he had taught in music schools in st. louis and kansas city, where the shallowness and complacency of the young misses had maddened him. he had encountered bad manners and bad faith, had been the victim of sharpers of all kinds, was dogged by bad luck. he had played in orchestras that were never paid and wandering opera troupes which disbanded penniless. and there was always the old enemy, more relentless than the others. it was long since he had wished anything or desired anything beyond the necessities of the body. now that he was tempted to hope for another, he felt alarmed and shook his head.
it was his pupil’s power of application, her rugged will, that interested him. he had lived for so long among people whose sole ambition was to get something for nothing that he had learned not to look for seriousness in anything. now that he by chance encountered it, it recalled standards, ambitions, a society long forgot. what was it she reminded him of? a yellow flower, full of sunlight, perhaps. no; a thin glass full of sweet-smelling, sparkling moselle wine. he seemed to see such a glass before him in the arbor, to watch the bubbles rising and breaking, like the silent discharge of energy in the nerves and brain, the rapid florescence in young blood—wunsch felt ashamed and dragged his slippers along the path to the kitchen, his eyes on the ground.
