A...STUDY of JOY and PAIN

A... STUDY of JOY and PAIN

By Everett Holbrook

Copyright, 1901, by Charles B. Etherington

THE night city editor had told me that if I would go to Viani's I might see somebody married and somebody killed, and he had been called away for consultation with the chief before he could explain this statement. So I strolled up to the restaurant dear to the hearts of Bohemians without having any definite idea about what was likely to occur there.

Viani's hospitable door is in the front of a house so small that one would not expect to find space within for ten people to sit down to dinner, but the shanty proves to be only the vestibule to a series of rooms scattered through the jumble of buildings in the middle of the block. These had been taken into the establishment in the years of Viani's advancing prosperity. The different levels of the floors were the steps by which he had risen and by which he had long known he must go down, though only within a few months had any suspicion of his financial embarrassment been whispered through the quarter.

Charley White was leaning against the bar.

In the little bar by the door I observed an inconspicuous person dressed in dark clothes whom I had often met at police headquarters. He goes by the name of Charley White, though he is a son of Italy. I knew him for an amiable fellow and an able detective, and I at once perceived a connection between his presence and the tragic suggestion of the night city editor.

In response to a question from me White admitted that his presence was official rather than social.

"I'm looking for young Viani," said he.

"Nephew of our friend," said I, indicating the proprietor of the establishment, who appeared at that moment at the door of the large dining room in the rear.

"Nicola claims some sort of relationship with old Viani," replied White, "but I doubt if there really is any. He has lived here off and on for some years. He's always been in love with Marta, Viani's daughter, but he never had a chance there. She was willing to be a cousin to him, but no more. He's a hot blooded, half crazy chap, and I've heard that he was going to make trouble."

"He passes for the handsomest man in the quarter."

"Why, what's the matter with him?" I inquired. "It isn't Marta that's married today."

"No," said White. "The bride is Nina Carusi; but this fellow Romano- the bridegroom- used to be engaged to Marta. Romano is no good except to look at, and a man in my business can't even say that much for him, but he passes for the handsomest man in the quarter, and many's the girl that has gone foolish about him. Marta Viani was one of them, and when Romano broke the engagement last summer she nearly died.

"You see, Romano, like a good many others, thought that Viani was rich, and it has always been his theory that he was too handsome to work. He wanted to live at Viani's for nothing the rest of his days, but when it suddenly developed that Viani was ruined and might not be able to live here himself Romano shifted his affections to Nina Carusi, who has a bit of money in her own name.

"Nicola Viani, the young fellow, has been out of town for awhile and has jugt got back.

The poor child was shockingly changed.

He has taken it Into his head that Marta is dying of a broken heart and that Romano is responsible. Therefore Nicola has declared a vendetta, and Romano is scared- as he has a right to be, I don't mind telling you."

"But why did they come here for their wedding spread?" I asked.

"The arrangements were made before Nicola turned up. This is the swell restaurant, you know, and, besides, Nina Carusi wouldn't lose the chance of making Marta feel sore. There's likely to be trouble, my friend, for Nicola means business. And the worst of it is that I can't find out what's become of him. He wasn't at the church. He must be lying around here somewhere."

"So the wedding has already taken place?" said I. And White replied that it had and that the bridal party was due to arrive at any moment.

I asked him why he had not kept Romano in view, and he answered that he was sure that Nicola was hanging around the restaurant and that the trouble, if there should be any, would be there.

"I think I hear the carriages," he said. "I'll take a look outside."

During this conversation we had stepped into a little room on the right of the bar. No one else had been present, but as White passed out and I stood looking after him a door opened behind me. I turned and saw Marta Viani.

Marta was a m pretty girl whom I remembered for her big, dark eyes j I and plump red cheeks. I had not been at Viani's in some months, though formerly an habitue, and so had not seen Marta. The poor child was shockingly changed. I think she must have lost twenty pounds in weight, and the color had quite gone out of her cheeks.

He looked wicked if ever a man did.

As I looked at her I felt a strong desire to take Nicola's business out of his hands, though my method of administering justice would have been more crude than his and without the touch of finality. It is singular how deeply we sympathize with a girl in such circumstances when she really ought to be congratulated.

Marta leaned against the wall of the room at the point which would be least conspicuous from without. Evidently she wished to see the bridal procession pass into the banquet hall and not herself be seen. There was the voiceless pain of a dumb animal in her eyes, the suffering that always moves me quickest to anger. So long as an afflicted creature can talk and does talk I can keep cool; but poor Marta was beyond speech.

Suddenly I saw at the back of the room, where the door through which Marta had come stood ajar, the face of her cousin, Nicola. He looked wicked if ever a man did. Marta seemed unaware of his presence. She was looking beyond me, waiting for a sight of the rascal, Romano.

In came the bridal couple.

I pretended not to notice Nicola and glanced out into the bar, hoping to see White, but he must have been on the sidewalk, whence came the noise of the arrival of the bridal party. A dozen young men and women came boisterously into the bar and ranged themselves along the sides of the room, with their faces turned toward the door. Around the entrance to the large dining room quite a crowd had gathered. The double doors were open, and by craning my neck I could see the long table spread for the feast.

My position was far from comfortable. I had a very definite idea that Nicola Viani intended to attack Romano at the moment when that happy man should pass the door by which I was standing. In that event I should have to stop him, and, though he was not physically formidable, I knew what he would have In his hand.

I had not the moral courage to ask help of any one, so I stood there like a dummy, trying to look behind and before at the same time. In came the bridal couple, Romano in a frock coat with a colored shirt under it; a red tie glaring fiercely under his chin, and a big rose of another red ornamenting his buttonhole. He had a tall hat in his left hand, and the bride hung upon his right arm. I observed that his hair and mustache were curled in the best style of the tonsorial art. Withal, he was a handsome creature, and I could hardly wonder that the girls adored him.

On my return I met Viani.

As to the bride, I regretted to observe that she was in all details of dress as different from her race as possible. Her face was rather pretty, and she had a natural grace, but she had spoiled all by making of herself a bad copy of an American.

So they passed by amid cheers, and Nicola remained quiet by the door. Apparently his desire for vengeance had exhausted itself in conversation. I began to despise him, for he had before his eyes the sight of Marta, who would have fallen but for the wall behind her and whose hands were clasped upon her breast as if there were a knife in her heart.

I went out to the Street to tell White about Nicola, but failed to find him after considerable search. On my return I met Viani, who told me that I should find a seat reserved for me in the banquet hall.

When I entered, I observed immediately and with surprise that Romano was not there. The chair by the bride's have felt aggrieved. It was to most of them only a noise in the ears, but they had been accustomed to it. The Mount Holly would not have been itself without music, and by the same token some of the habitues would have been uneasy if the din of conversation had been less or the waiters had ceased to rattle the plates. I saw indeed a few of the guests who were really enjoying the music, but they were not doing it in a way that a musician could understand. Finally Heinrich caught my eye, and I could perceive at once that he was both surprised and pleased. Surely he played at me during the remainder of the piece, and I fancied that his execution sensibly improved.

I had not told my companions about Heinrich, but when the music ceased I proceeded to do so. It is only fair to say that the others at my table had been as inattentive as the generality of the Mount Holly's guests, but we all listened when Heinrich rose again to lead his little band. This time it was not with him the customary forlorn hope. He showed the evidences of an uplifted heart.

They played a serenade of Titl's which has long been dear to me, and I am bound to say that I have seldom heard it so well rendered. Our party had planned to applaud, but we were all so thoroughly pleased that the act had the full flavor of spontaneity. Dozens of people around us joined in the hand clapping, and as most of them had not consciously heard a note they forced a repetition of the piece out of mere curiosity. The manager of the Mount Holly looked out to see what was the matter, and I had a glimpse of him standing in the doorway round eyed with astonishment.

As for Heinrich, he was serenely ecstatic. His eyes shone, he gained two inches in stature, and when he turned after the second rendition of the serenade to thank his subordinates for their aid in winning this triumph I saw him wiping away tears with the handkerchief that had been folded against the end of his fiddle.

I MET HIM ONE FORENOON UPON THE STEPS OF THE DOCTOR'S HOUSE.

"This is very nice to see," said the lady who sat at my right, "but I suspect that it will be the ruin of your friend. He will want this always and will never have it again."

When the next piece was finished, we were getting ready to go and forgot to applaud. I thought of it too late and looked at Heinrich. To my surprise, he seemed even better pleased than before.

It must have been about two weeks later that I met him one forenoon upon the steps of the doctor's house. He was obviously much improved in health. At sight of me he started and then flushed with pleasure as I greeted him by name and thanked him for the Titl serenade.

"You gave us the first applause we had had," he said. "I was almost despairing, though I told no one. The doctor even goes so far as to say that it was affecting my health, and indeed the artist needs some little encouragement. Is it not so?"

As I was trying to frame a reply he continued:

"But if he does not get it that is his fault. It is because he does not attain the proper standard. I was beginning to lose sight of that truth. I said to myself, 'The conditions are not favorable- the noise and all that.' It is ruinous to get that idea. One can always succeed if he will deserve it.

"I think it was your attentive attitude that inspired us. We played the serenade well. We won applause. We have had none since, but we are perfectly satisfied. When we merit it, we shall get it, and if it takes us ten years we shall work on contentedly.

"Do you know, I was almost afraid on that evening that you were going to applaud the second piece, which we murdered. It had been insufficiently rehearsed. We do it better now. If you had applauded, it would have spoiled all. But, no, you were too good a musician, for of course it was you who led the audience. There is always some critical spirit to do that. I am not always fortunate enough to catch his eye, but he is there. I shall never doubt that.

"Goodby," he added cheerily. "I hope you will soon come to the .Mount Holly again."

I lied, saying that I would. But I shall not dare. I might applaud in the wrong place and kill the artistic faith which it was my great good luck to revive in Heinrich's breast.