tureen. 'Set that down on the floor and fetch me a spoon,' thundered the duke. The soldiers looked up in evident surprise, but, too well disciplined to speak except in answer to a question, obeyed; then stood submissively awaiting further orders. The duke, wearing a severely critical expression of face, dipped the spoon in the gray, murky liquid, but had no sooner touched it to his lips than he angrily rejected it, shrieking, 'Why, it's dish-water!' 'As your Highness says,' answered the terrified soldiers. And so it was-dishwater being carried away in a cast-off souptureen used for washing knives and forks." Theodore's malicious enjoyment of this story is not entirely without retributive justice. He says: "On one occasion, in my early Smolna days, I was to play in a concert. The pompous president met me, and inquired superciliously, 'Why are you not in uniform?' 'I have none,' was my prompt answer. 'The uniform is obligatory with us--you are required to have one,' objected the martinet. Now this idea of wearing uniform was extremely distasteful to me. The Emperor was present at the concert and very kindly complimented me on my playing. In thanking him for his graciousness, I remarked that I had come near not appearing at all. Consequent questioning revealed the story of the uniform, and his Majesty laughed heartily, exclaiming: 'An artist in uniform! How absurd!'

"And so I found myself in possession of the highest warrant for not wearing the state livery, and had, moreover, the satisfaction of beholding the discomfiture of the haughty Oldinburg, who stood by wrathfully biting his lip."

A TRICK OF EXECUTION

DREYSCHOCK and Leschetizky were one day discussing pianistic effects. The former enlarged on the difficulties to be overcome before attaining a smooth glissando in the Weber "Concertstück," and then immediately sat down and executed it flawlessly. Theodore, who stood behind, complimented him highly, and, in his turn, ripped off the glissando without trouble. He then requested Dreyschock to play the passage again, maliciously insisting that his friend must have some original method of accomplishing the feat.

Dreyschock consented; but as he sat down Leschetizky held his hand tightly. Then their eyes met, and each knew that the other was possessed of his little secret, the very innocent device of moistening the thumb, but at the proper moment, and so dexterously that the audience does not see the hand carried to the mouth.

TURNING THE MUSIC FOR GOUNOD

LESCHETIZKY's visit to London is memorable for his meeting with Charles Gounod, who received him with the largehearted cordiality that, whatever may be said to the contrary, characterizes men of genius. The two musicians were much and often together, and it was there that Theodore met the beautiful Miss Weldon, who so cruelly returned Gounod's friendship by suppressing the score of "Polyeucte," which neither a lawsuit nor any inducement or threat was able to wrest from her, so that the composer was obliged to begin his work again from the beginning. Gounod was to accompany Patti in one of his songs, and invited Theodore to be present. "You must come," he said. "I want you as near me as possible." But this was a difficult matter to arrange, as all the seats were already disposed of; so at the last moment Leschetizky suggested sitting on the stage and turning the pages of the music. "But I will not use any," objected Gounod. "Never mind, maestro," answered Theodore; "we will put up something else and I will pretend to turn." And the genial composer finding the idea excellent, the knotty question was solved.

PADEREWSKI

THE musicians of Vienna had hailed with joy the founding of the Tonkünstlerverein, which gave an opportunity of hearing not only the best products of their fellowtownsmen, but also those of foreigners, who, when possible, were always invited to take part. I remember the night that Leschetizky brought out his brilliant pupil Ignace Paderewski. His performance of an original theme and variations was not greeted with special favor. Indeed, some local musicians were heard to remark that the "young man did not seem to promise much." But his keener master opposed envious criticism with the now unanswer

able statement, "Ah, my dear -, you will have to get used to hearing that young man's name.' Yet, as he stood nonchalantly in the passageway, his tawny head resting against the wall, those who foresaw his great future were probably few.

He came to Vienna to study with Leschetizky in 1885. Of all his pupils, the master claims that Paderewski was the most docile. There was no remark so insignificant, no detail so small, as to deserve less than his whole passionate attention. In his two modest rooms in No. 46 Anastasius Gringer Strasse (rooms which for motives of sentiment he retains on a life lease), with a slender wardrobe and scanty comforts, he patiently laid the foundation of his brilliant career.

On the evening of my first introduction to Paderewski, he told me something which I have found food for thought. "It is not the first time I have seen you, mademoiselle-I saw you once when you were only a child," he said; and went on to narrate that at a certain concert in Dwinsk he had seen me with my parents. We had come, naturally, in our own equipage with liveried servants. In our country these things always produce a certain effect that is perhaps to be deplored. It seems that Paderewski had been asked to play at this concert, but could not accept the engagement because he had no evening dress. And there he stood in the doorway, unnoticed, unconsidered, possibly looking up with a certain deference to the representatives of an aristocracy who in so short a time afterward would come to look up to him as one of Poland's greatest glories.

In Vienna we became well acquainted, and Paderewski came often to our apartment, where he was always informally welcomed. My mother was very fond of him and loved to have him come in unannounced, which he often did, sitting down at the piano while the table was being laid for dinner, going over difficult passages in compositions he was studying, or improvising with such bravura that my mother would laughingly insist our pia

nino could not possibly resist the terrific onslaught.

Paderewski has a wonderful gift of mindreading, and his accurate and immediate response to any possible suggestion has been a matter of surprise to many. He has what might almost be called a genius for devising impromptu amusements; and when a number of young people were assembled at the master's house, he and Annette Essipoff were always the life of the party, entering into the spirit of the games with childlike enjoyment. Paderewski would sometimes laugh so heartily that, through sheer exhaustion, he would sit down on the floor, and with no symptom of embarrassment at his undignified position.

Since he has made a fortune he has abundantly proved to the world that sympathy and great-heartedness known only to his friends in the days of his poverty. Walking along Währinger Strasse one evening, I noticed Paderewski standing before an open booth, and was surprised to see him purchase a Christmas tree gaily decorated with pink paper roses and shining green leaves, a box of sweetmeats, and a quantity of toys. Coming closer, the mystery was solved. Two small ragamuffins, standing with legs far apart, hands deep in pockets, silent but for an awkward, inarticulate gratitude expressed on their faces, were to be the recipients. Paderewski explained that the hungry-eyed urchins staring at a prosperous housewife making her Christmas purchases had been too much for his stoicism. And how many are the other instances of generosity in small things and in great!

Paderewski studied continuously in Vienna for two years. He received lessons from Mme. Essipoff and many from Leschetizky himself. These he took irregularly, sometimes one a week, sometimes two, and generally in the evening from seven to nine o'clock. After teaching for a year in Strasburg, he came back to Vienna for another season; but his lessons were interrupted by his concert engagements in Paris, Germany, and Switzerland.

ROSE

XXXVII

OOSE was buried in the great churchyard of Slocum Magna. There was at first an intention of laying her in one of the London cemeteries, but Augusta would not hear of that. Her ideas of justice found a sort of grim satisfaction in bringing back the Herions to their own village, dead or alive.

Mr. Raif was only less disgusted with the change of plan than the London undertaker. For him this unedifying return of the prodigal with mortuary honors was a humiliation for the system which had driven her forth. It was a bad example for the village. Poor Rose's coffin might be a Pandora's box charged with all sorts of subversive ideas to taint the country-side. A pauper's grave for it in distant London might have furnished him with the matter for a homily. As it was, he declined to take any part in the ceremony, and willingly relinquished his share in it to his colleague.

Augusta attended the funeral, and not by deputy, but in her own person. The whole village was by her side. All sorrowed, even those who, like Grimber, saw in the occasion but the fulfilment of a prophecy of doom. All had loved Rose. At his evening sitting Job called for another "mug o' yel" to toast her memory. "She wur a good un, she wur-died at her post." There was a subflavor of bitterness in the tribute. He could not but reflect that his wife's devotion took the form rather of driving him to his work than of dying to do it for him. His select moral was not

wanting. "It's what I always say: speak yer mind, an' you get the sack. You don't get it for speakin': you get it, that's all." It was the peasant moral far and wide: "Lie low."

George was brought back to the village as soon as he could bear the journey, and properly provided for. The child of course came with him, and the two mothers were there to look after both. All this was Augusta's care. It was what the blacksmith called making a clean job of it. The village hardly knew how to look at the matter. A few thought that the injured man was lucky in the prospect of being "kep' for life," and that a paralyzed spinal system was no excessive price to pay for the luxury. These consequently were free to regard him as the victor in the long struggle with the castle. The agent naturally had other views. The crippled man, the orphaned child, were awful object-lessons of the folly of resistance to the system. Who could have a doubt as to the winning side, with this withered thing sunning itself in its bandages at the cottage door, by the duke's leave, this child learning to cry "mammy" to its grandams, and with the mother it was beginning to forget in the churchyard? The village, on the whole, was much of this way of thinking. The muttered moral of the fireside and the alebench might have been expressed in the terms of the catch, "Hold thy peace, thou knave!" All who have given up the struggle with circumstance come to that, from the Trappist to the Russian peasant, that lotus-eater of submission and despair.

"Leave it alone; don't trouble: it won't last long. And then, still keeping quiet, quiet, you'll be carted-you know where; and dust will be the end of it. The busy arm, the busy tongue-all vanity; and nothing helps."

So the old stillness settles down upon Slocum, and the grass gets time to grow upon Rose's grave. The village resumes its eternal order of things, if that can be resumed which has never suffered check or pause. For the real order is that Slocum shall sometimes struggle, but always suffer defeat; that the Herions and Spurrs shall unfailingly return to heel after futile divagations, and the Grimbers, Gurts, and Sketts never leave the path. Generations reared in dependence and submission find it easiest to go on in that way.

So thinks Mr. Kisbye as he sits musing in his library to-day over a binding and a cigarette-so, and otherwise. The victory over George is as much his victory as the castle's. Brain has won in this skirmish, as it is going to win in the final battle. The money-lender is sure that he has made a wise choice in living from a single organ. He has found it pay to be without heart and, except on the rare occasions on which he has to call himself a fool, without conscience. Money has given him all he needs. His want of ruth is quite consistent with taste, both in life and art. He knows a painting as well as here and there a one, and will live to the end amid the harmonies of sense. He touches literature in rare covers, and sometimes, though not without a sort of derision, in the matter they contain. In all, he has realized to the full that prevalent conception of life as a conflict of forces for the wise satisfaction of a set of appetites. He is as unpitying at need as a spike-nosed fish ripping up another for a meal. He loves all good things in sheer technical perfection as manifestations of power-good music, good talk, good eating and drinking; and he loathes more heartily than ever all who try to give them an ethical import. Canvas and printed page alike, as things said, are nothing to him. They exist but for the way of saying it. He reads in many languages; and in ours, it may be suspected, not as a mother-tongue. He has just bought Milton's greatest poem in a twohundred-and-fifty-guinea edition, and he is now dipping into it to find refreshment

in its principal character, and the luxury of contempt in its dialogues on the allsufficiency of virtue. "Pa-ta-tra! and that 's dog-French for it!" he chuckles as he closes the book with a snap.

His disdain of the lowly is chiefly induced by their interested chatter, as born fools, about the right and the wrong. His wrath against George, dating from the fateful outburst on the night of the meeting, has never cooled. He despises Liddicot as a weakling. He hopes to win Mary yet by sheer force of will. He feels sure that the reversion of the honors and the pride and power of feudalism is to his order. To them the country-side must ultimately come, by right of that modern lordship of gold that has taken the place of the lordship of the sword.

His next victory promises to be at the expense of the Duke of Allonby. He has finally consented to sell, and on extremely reasonable terms, the piece of land which has so long spoiled the view from the Towers. The real price is an invitation to dinner. The solicitors have met once more, and Mr. Kisbye's have suggested that his client may be found tractable on these terms. The duke has undertaken to see what can be done, and has even sounded his wife. Augusta said never a word.

XXXVIII

IT is nearly a year since Mr. Gooding left. Now he is at Liddicot again, and crossing the moat on his way to luncheon with the squire. He found the invitation waiting for him on his arrival at Allonby last night.

The scene was pretty much the same as before the visitor on the drawbridge, Mary in espial at the turret window. The squire did the honors of reception, with his son at hand. It would have been impossible to exceed their cordiality. Tom, now nearly well, has raised the young American to the highest grade in his esteem. He has announced his deliberate conviction that Mr. Gooding is "a sportsman." Beyond this, notoriously, it is impossible to go, as it includes the lower degree of one who "plays the game." He means the game of life, though his praise might be more precious if he meant the game of polo.

He is quite happy once more, and has returned to his old cheery conception of

the terrestrial sphere as a picnic for persons of position. Mary has been busy with him in loving care of his convalescence, and for him in promoting an inquisitorial examination of his affairs by the family solicitors. Messrs. Stallbrass, Stallbrass, Fruhling, Jenkins & Prothero have succeeded in bringing Kisbye to something that may be called terms. Tom is going to lead a new life. It is a pleasant illusion for him and for his relatives. These total changes of heart and conduct belong to the imaginative literature of resolve.

Delighted as she was, Mary met her old friend with something of embarrassment. She was no longer the rather critical young person trying to classify him for her pigeonholes of character. He had established a kind of mastery over her spirit, just because he never made the vestige of a claim. There he was, always efficient in an emergency, and, to all appearance, as indeed very much in reality, never in the least degree aware of it. Mary began to wonder how she should carry it through, and to arrange her commonplaces in advance-a fatal portent of discomfiture in encounters of this description.

His tact, or perhaps only the mere human nature in him, saved them both. They had been separated long enough to have memories in common; and, when they found themselves alone in a walk after luncheon, he, without the slightest effort, became the boy again. It gave her immense relief by putting her, at least for the moment, on their old footing. He had struck the note of the "chatter of irresponsible frivolity" as between boy and girl.

"And the good old automatic supply?" he asked. "Still going strong?"

"Now please be intelligible."

66

How do they manage, I wonder? "They manage for themselves, I fancy," he said.

"What a funny country!"

"Oh, it's just their way. You see, they are all so many little Dukes of Allonby, ownership and all; and you can't imagine the extent of their investments in false pride."

"Five hundred villagers, five hundred masters. Does n't it seem simpler, now, to cut down the masters by four hundred and ninety-nine?"

"Simpler for the one?" he said. "But it would be sheer depopulation: the villagers would have to follow suit. Ah, you must travel if you want to see sights. I always call Slocum my new world."

"I know why you came," she said slyly. "Augusta told me. You're the American invasion."

He gave a little start, then laughed. "What's that.?"

"Don't look so innocent. You want to

"Don't be irreverent."

"And the worst of it is, they work best when you put in pebbles. But there, I'm not bound to criminate myself."

"That's a confession. Now I know who brought Grimber and Job together on that awful day."

"I can prove an alibi. I was under Augusta's eye all the time."

"I hope you have n't come back to upset any more apple-carts, even Mr. Raif's."

we won't sell."

"Not even your match factories and