M'sieu Fortier's Violin

by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

Slowly, one by one, the lights in the French Opera go out, untilthere is but a single glimmer of pale yellow flickering in thegreat dark space, a few moments ago all a-glitter with jewels andthe radiance of womanhood and a-clash with music. Darkness now,and silence, and a great haunted hush over all, save for thedistant cheery voice of a stage hand humming a bar of the opera.The glimmer of gas makes a halo about the bowed white head of alittle old man putting his violin carefully away in its case withaged, trembling, nervous fingers. Old M'sieu Fortier was thelast one out every night.Outside the air was murky, foggy. Gas and electricity were butfaint splotches of light on the thick curtain of fog and mist.Around the opera was a mighty bustle of carriages and drivers andfootmen, with a car gaining headway in the street now and then, ahowling of names and numbers, the laughter and small talk ofcloaked society stepping slowly to its carriages, and the morebourgeoisie vocalisation of the foot passengers who streamedalong and hummed little bits of music. The fog's denseness wasconfusing, too, and at one moment it seemed that the littlenarrow street would become inextricably choked and remain sountil some mighty engine would blow the crowd into atoms. It hadbeen a crowded night. From around Toulouse Street, where led theentrance to the troisiemes, from the grand stairway, from theentrance to the quatriemes, the human stream poured into thestreet, nearly all with a song on their lips.M'sieu Fortier stood at the corner, blinking at the beautifulladies in their carriages. He exchanged a hearty salutation withthe saloon-keeper at the corner, then, tenderly carrying hisviolin case, he trudged down Bourbon Street, a little old, bent,withered figure, with shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, asthough the faded brown overcoat were not thick enough.Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was ahouse, little and old and queer, but quite large enough to holdM'sieu Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat. He was homebut little, for on nearly every day there were rehearsals; thenon Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, and twice Sundaysthere were performances, so Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat kepthouse almost always alone. Then, when M'sieu Fortier was at home,why, it was practice, practice all the day, and smoke, snore,sleep at night. Altogether it was not very exhilarating.M'sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra eversince--well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimesthere would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the greatbuilding would be dark and silent. Then M'sieu Fortier would dojobs of playing here and there, one night for this ball, anothernight for that soiree dansante, and in the day, work at histrade,--that of a cigar-maker. But now for seven years there hadbeen no break in the season, and the little old violinist washappy. There is nothing sweeter than a regular job and goodmusic to play, music into which one can put some soul, someexpression, and which one must study to understand. Dance music,of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, istrivial, easy, uninteresting.So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne, and the white cat lived apeaceful, uneventful existence out on Bayou Road. When the operaseason was over in February, M'sieu went back to cigar-making,and the white cat purred none the less contentedly.It had been a benefit to-night for the leading tenor, and he hadchosen "Roland a Ronceveaux," a favourite this season, for hisfarewell. And, mon Dieu, mused the little M'sieu, but how hisvoice had rung out bell-like, piercing above the chorus of thefirst act! Encore after encore was given, and the bravos of thetroisiemes were enough to stir the most sluggish of pulses. "Superbes Pyrenees Qui dressez dans le ciel, Vos cimes couronnees D'un hiver eternelle, Pour nous livrer passage Ouvrez vos larges flancs, Faites faire l'orage, Voici, venir les Francs!"M'sieu quickened his pace down Bourbon Street as he sang thechorus to himself in a thin old voice, and then, before he couldsee in the thick fog, he had run into two young men."I--I--beg your pardon,--messieurs," he stammered."Most certainly," was the careless response; then the speaker,taking a second glance at the object of the rencontre, criedjoyfully:"Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singingyour love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that you didn't see athing but the moon, did you? And who is the fair one who shouldclog your senses so?"There was a deprecating shrug from the little man."Ma foi, but monsieur must know fo' sho', dat I am too old forlove songs!""I know nothing save that I want that violin of yours. When isit to be mine, M'sieu Fortier?""Nevare, nevare!" exclaimed M'sieu, gripping on as tightly to thecase as if he feared it might be wrenched from him. "Me alovere, and to sell mon violon! Ah, so ver' foolish!""Martel," said the first speaker to his companion as they movedon up town, "I wish you knew that little Frenchman. He's aunique specimen. He has the most exquisite violin I've seen inyears; beautiful and mellow as a genuine Cremona, and he can makethe music leap, sing, laugh, sob, skip, wail, anything you likefrom under his bow when he wishes. It's something wonderful. Weare good friends. Picked him up in my French-town rambles. I'vebeen trying to buy that instrument since--""To throw it aside a week later?" lazily inquired Martel. "Youare like the rest of these nineteenth-century vandals, you cansee nothing picturesque that you do not wish to deface for asouvenir; you cannot even let simple happiness alone, but mustneeds destroy it in a vain attempt to make it your own or paradeit as an advertisement."As for M'sieu Fortier, he went right on with his song and turnedinto Bayou Road, his shoulders still shrugged high as though hewere cold, and into the quaint little house, where Ma'am Jeanneand the white cat, who always waited up for him at nights, wereboth nodding over the fire.It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M'sieu wentback to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do aswell this spring and summer as always. There is a certain amountof cunning and finesse required to roll a cigar just so, thatM'sieu seemed to be losing, whether from age or deterioration itwas hard to tell. Nevertheless, there was just about half asmuch money coming in as formerly, and the quaint little puckerbetween M'sieu's eyebrows which served for a frown came oftenerand stayed longer than ever before."Minesse," he said one day to the white cat,--he told all histroubles to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma'am Jeanne, shewas too deaf to understand,--"Minesse, we are gettin' po'. You'pere git h'old, an' hees han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an' derebe no mo' soirees dese day. Minesse, eef la saison don' hurryup, we shall eat ver' lil' meat."And Minesse curled her tail and purred.Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began tofloat about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer managethe opera, but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, asyndicate. Bah! These English-speaking people could do nothingunless there was a trust, a syndicate, a company immense anddishonest. It was going to be a guarantee business, with astrictly financial basis. But worse than all this, the newmanager, who was now in France, would not only procure theartists, but a new orchestra, a new leader. M'sieu Fortier grewapprehensive at this, for he knew what the loss of his placewould mean to him.September and October came, and the papers were filled withaccounts of the new artists from France and of the new orchestraleader too. He was described as a most talented, progressive,energetic young man. M'sieu Fortier's heart sank at the word"progressive." He was anything but that. The New Orleans Creoleblood flowed too sluggishly in his old veins.November came; the opera reopened. M'sieu Fortier was notre-engaged."Minesse," he said with a catch in his voice that stronglyresembled a sob, "Minesse, we mus' go hongry sometime. Ah, monpauvre violon! Ah, mon Dieu, dey put us h'out, an' dey will nothave us. Nev' min', we will sing anyhow." And drawing his bowacross the strings, he sang in his thin, quavering voice, "Salutdemeure, chaste et pure."It is strange what a peculiar power of fascination former hauntshave for the human mind. The criminal, after he has fled fromjustice, steals back and skulks about the scene of his crime; theemployee thrown from work hangs about the place of his formerindustry; the schoolboy, truant or expelled, peeps in at theschool-gate and taunts the good boys within. M'sieu Fortier wasno exception. Night after night of the performances he climbedthe stairs of the opera and sat, an attentive listener to theorchestra, with one ear inclined to the stage, and a quizzicalexpression on his wrinkled face. Then he would go home, and patMinesse, and fondle the violin."Ah, Minesse, dose new player! Not one bit can dey play. Suchtones, Minesse, such tones! All the time portemento, oh, so ver'bad! Ah, mon chere violon, we can play." And he would play andsing a romance, and smile tenderly to himself.At first it used to be into the deuxiemes that M'sieu Fortierwent, into the front seats. But soon they were too expensive,and after all, one could hear just as well in the fourth row asin the first. After a while even the rear row of the deuxiemeswas too costly, and the little musician wended his way with theplebeians around on Toulouse Street, and climbed the long,tedious flight of stairs into the troisiemes. It makes nodifference to be one row higher. It was more to the liking,after all. One felt more at home up here among the people. Ifone was thirsty, one could drink a glass of wine or beer beingpassed about by the libretto boys, and the music sounded just aswell.But it happened one night that M'sieu could not even afford toclimb the Toulouse Street stairs. To be sure, there was yetanother gallery, the quatriemes, where the peanut boys went for adime, but M'sieu could not get down to that yet. So he stayedoutside until all the beautiful women in their warm wraps, abright-hued chattering throng, came down the grand staircase totheir carriages.It was on one of these nights that Courcey and Martel found himshivering at the corner."Hello, M'sieu Fortier," cried Courcey, "are you ready to let mehave that violin yet?""For shame!" interrupted Martel."Fifty dollars, you know," continued Courcey, taking no heed ofhis friend's interpolation.M'sieu Fortier made a courtly bow. "Eef Monsieur will call at my'ouse on de morrow, he may have mon violon," he said huskily;then turned abruptly on his heel, and went down Bourbon Street,his shoulders drawn high as though he were cold.When Courcey and Martel entered the gate of the little house onBayou Road the next day, there floated out to their ears awordless song thrilling from the violin, a song that told morethan speech or tears or gestures could have done of the uttersorrow and desolation of the little old man. They walked softlyup the short red brick walk and tapped at the door. Within,M'sieu Fortier was caressing the violin, with silent tearsstreaming down his wrinkled gray face.There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away withthe instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbledat the essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world. M'sieuFortier turned back into the room, after bowing his visitors outwith old-time French courtliness, and turning to the sleepy whitecat, said with a dry sob:"Minesse, dere's only me an' you now."About six days later, Courcey's morning dreams were disturbed bythe announcement of a visitor. Hastily doing a toilet, hedescended the stairs to find M'sieu Fortier nervously pacing thehall floor."I come fo' bring back you' money, yaas. I cannot sleep, Icannot eat, I only cry, and t'ink, and weesh fo' mon violon; andMinesse, an' de ol' woman too, dey mope an' look bad too, all formon violon. I try fo' to use dat money, but eet burn an' stinglak blood money. I feel lak' I done sol' my child. I cannot goat l'opera no mo', I t'ink of mon violon. I starve befo' I livewidout. My heart, he is broke, I die for mon violon."Courcey left the room and returned with the instrument."M'sieu Fortier," he said, bowing low, as he handed the case tothe little man, "take your violin; it was a whim with me, apassion with you. And as for the money, why, keep that too; itwas worth a hundred dollars to have possessed such an instrumenteven for six days."

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