Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 September 1875 — THE CORNET-A-PISTON. [ARTICLE]

THE CORNET-A-PISTON.

[Translated from the French lor Lippincott’s Magazine.] “ Master Basil, play us a little tune; we. want to dance.” “Yea, yes. Master Basil, play the cor-net-a-piston for us.” “Joaquin studies music; go fetch Joaquin’s cornet for Master Basil.” “ Yes, do; that is right. Will you play something for us, Master Basil?” “ No, my children.” “Why no?” “ I say no.” “And why?” “ I do not know how to play.” “ You do not know how! Oh, what a hypocrite! You want to be begged.” “ Pooh, pooh! We know very well that you were a first-rate musician in the regiment, and that up to this time no one has ever played the cornet-a-piston like you.” “And that you played before the court.” “ And that you have a pension.” “ Come, Master Basil!” “Well, yes, it is true I-did play the corneLa-piston—l was even a virtuoso, aS you call it nowadays—but it is also true that fifteen years or more ago I made a present of my instrument to a' poor man and since then I have not even hummed a note.” “ What a pity! such a great musician!” “ But this evening you will play, won’t you? Here in the country anything is allowable.” “ To-day especially—my birthday.” “ Bravo! bravo! here is the instrument.” “ Y T es, play us a waltz.” “ No, a polka.” “ A polka! not at all —a fandango.” “Yes, yes, a fandango, the national dance.” “I am very sorry, my children, I cannot play.” “ You are generally so amiable!” “ So obliging!” -“ It is your dear grandson asking you.” “ And your grandniece. ’’ “Let me be; in the name of Almighty God, I tell you that I do not play.” “ But why so?” “ Because I have made a vow not to.” “To whom?” “To myself—to one who has gone—to your poor mother, my child.” At these words, spoken in a faltering tone, a veil of sadness suddenly covered all the faces present. “ Oh, if you but knew what it cost me to learn music!” continued the old man. “The story! the story!” shouted the young people—" tell us the story!” “It is in fact quite a story. Listen, then,” said Master Basil. And sitting down under a tree, whilst a crowd of curious young heads formed a circle aroflnd him, he related in these words how he had studied the cornet-a-piston. It is thus that Mazeppa, Lord Byron’s hero, likewise seated under a tree, related one evening to Charles XII. the terrible story of his rid-ing-lesson. But let us listen to Master Basil: “It will soon be twenty-three years since Spain was a prey to civil war. Don Carlos and Isabella were contending for the crown, and the Spaniards, divided into two camps, shed their blood in this fratricidal struggle. I had a friend, a Lieutenant of chasseurs, ip. the same battalion as myself, the most able man I had ever known. We had been brought up together—together we had graduated from college. A thousand times had we met upon the same battle-field, fighting side by side, and we both wished to die in the< cause of freedom. He was even, if you please, more liberal than I. “ Unfortunately, my friend Raymond was the victim of an injustice, of an abuse of authority—of one of those arbitrary acts sometimes committed by high officers in the army which outrage the more honorable men of this noble profession. From that moment the officer resolved io abandon his soldiers, the friend to leave his friend, the liberal to go over to the rebels, the subordinate to kill his Colonel. To God the Father Himself Raymond would not have forgiven an injustice. “ All my entreaties were useless to dissuade him iYoni his project. It was a settled thing; he would change the shako for the berettar— he who Nevertheless mortally detested the Carlists. “We happened to be at that time in the province of Asturias, three miles from the enemy. The night chosen by Raymond to desert had come—a cold, rainy night, bringing with it melancholy thought; we were to tight Ore next day. Toward midnight, just as I was falling asleep, Raymond entered my tent. “‘Basil!’ he whispered in my ear. < “ * Who is there?” “It is I. Adieu!” “ ‘ You are going already ?’ ’ ‘“Yes. Gcod-by;’ ana he grasped my arm. ‘Listen!’he continued- ‘if, as we expect, there should be a battle to-mor-row, and if we meet?-—■' ...' ... “‘I understand; we are friends.” ‘“Well, we will embrace each other

and continue to fight, each on his own side. As for»nyself I shall surely die, for I will not leave the field without having my revenge on the Colonel. As for you, Basil, do not expose yourself too much. Glory! You see what it is—smoke.’ “ ‘ And life?’ “ ‘ Yes, you are right. Become commander,’ continued Raymond, raising his voice. ‘ The pay — that is a more serious matter—rum, tobacco, pretty women. Alas! everything is over for me!’ “‘Good God! what are you thinking of?’ said I, quite overcome. ‘We both of us have made more than one narrow escape already.’ “ ‘ Well, then, let us name a place to meet after the engagement.’ “ ‘ Wherever you please.’ “‘ In the hermitage of St. Nicholas, at one o’clock at night. If one of us is not there it will be because he could not come; he will be dead.' Is it agreed?” “‘Perfectly. Farewell, then!’ “ ‘Farewell!’ “ We threw ourselves in each other’s arms; then Raymond disappeared in the shades of night. “As we feared, or, rather, as we had foreseen, the rebels attacked us the next day. The action was hot, and lasted from three o’clock in the afternoon until evening. Once only in the melee did I catch a glimpse of my friend Raymond; he wore on his head the little beretta of the Carlists. They had already named him commander; he had killed our Colonel. My luck was not so good. I was made prisoner by the enemy. “It was one o’clock in the morning, the hour of my rendezvous with Raymond. I found myself shut up in a room used as a prison, and in the heart of a small village then occupied by the Carlists. I asked about Raymond. “‘ He is a brave fellow,’ they answered me; ‘he has killed a Colonel, but he must be dead.’

“‘ Why so?’ “ ‘ Because he has not come back.’ “‘ Oh, how much I suffered that night! A hope, however, still remained; Raymond had undoubtedly waited for me at the hermitage, and that was 0e .reason they had not seen him again. ?Hbw*anxious he must have been at not finding me at the rendezvous ?’ I thought to myself. ‘He believes I am surely killed; and, in fact, is my last hour so far off? The Carlists shoot all their prisoners; to-morrow I-must die. It is true that Raymond will Teturn before—but if I die to-day! My God! my God! lam losing my head!’ “ Dawn broke upon me while in the midst of these reflections. A chaplain entered my prison; all my companions were sleeping. “‘I must die!’ I exclaimed, on seeing he priest. “ ‘ Yes!’ he answered gently. ‘‘“What! already?’ “ ‘ No; in three hours.’ “ A moment later my companions were awakened. A thousand cries, a thousahtl sobs, a thousand curses echoed through the prison. “ A man about to die ordinarily seizes one fixed idea and clings to it. Nightmare, fever or madness, that is what happened to me. The thought of Raymond took possession of my mind; I saw him living, I saw him dead—sometimes struggling in the melee, sometimes waiting for me at the hermitage. I was deaf, dumb, insensible—idiotic, in fact. “They took off my officers’ uniform and put on the cap and hood of a private soldier on me; then with my twenty companions! marched toward death. From this number only one, a musician, was to escape his ffoom. The Carlists spared the lives of musicians, not only because these poor devils were scarcely to be feared in battle, but also because they themselves wanted to form bands of music for their own battalions.”

“And you were a musician, Master Basil; that is what saved you!” exclaimed the young folks in one voice. “No, my children,” replied the veteran; “ I was not a musician. The Carlists drew up in line of battle. One platoon was detached, the platoon of execution, and we were placed before it. The number ten was given tb me. I should thus be the tenth man to die. Then I thought of my wife and my daughter—of your mother and'of you, niy child.. “ The execution began. As my eyes were bandaged I could not see my companions. I wanted to count the shots that I might know when my turn came, but before the third report I lost the count. “Ah, those gun-shots! I shall hear them always. They seemed to resound far away, very far away, and all at once to burst within my head. The reports followed each other, however. “‘ It is my turn now,’ I said to myself. The balls whistled, but I was still alive. “‘This time it is surely my turn; it is all over.’ I felt some one take me by the shoulders, shake me, speak in my ear. I fell, I ceased to think; then I dreamed that I was shot dead. “‘Was the dream still lasting? I lay on a bed in my room, the very one which had served as a prison. I saw nothing. I raised my hands to my eyes to take oft the bandage and I found that my eyes were free, wide open, but the prison was full I of shadows. I then heard a clock strike and I began to tremble. It was evening prayers. “‘lt is nine o’clock,’ I thought, ‘but what day can it be?’ “ A shadow more dense than that surrounding leaned over me; this shadow had a human form. My lips unconsciously murmured a name, the name I had incessantly repeated during my nightmare— Raymond. “ ‘What is it?’ said a voice at my side. “ ‘My God!’ I exclaimed, ‘is that you, Raymond? You are alive yet?’ “ ‘ Yes.’ “ ‘ And I?’ “‘You, also.’ j- “ ‘ Where am I, then? At the hermitage? Have I been dreaming, then ? Was I not made prisoner ?’ “ ‘ No, Basil, you have not been dreaming. I will tell you everything. Yesterday in themeieel hit the Colonel; I had my revenge. Then, blinded by rage, I killed, I killed until night—until there no longer remained a single Christino upon the field. When the moon rose I was very weary, but I remembered you; then I directed my steps to.tlie hermitage, intending to wait for you. It was ten o’clock in the evening; the rendezvous was for one. The night before I had not closed my eyes; I fell asleep. At one o’clock I awoke uttering a cry. I looked around and found myself alone. Two o’clock, three o'clock, four o’clock struck; you did not appear. You were surely dead; this thought maddened me. Day dawned at last; I left tlie hermitage and turned toward the village, where my new brothers-in-arms were mustered. They all believed I had been left on tlie field, fhey received me with open arms; they heaped compliments and honors upon me. Then, all at once, while talking to them, I learned that twenty-one prisoners were to be shot that very morning. A presentiment crossed my mind; could Basil be

among them? I. hastened away. The execution was already formed. I heard some shots'; the firing had begun. My eyes sought you, but, blinded by grief, they could not see. Finally, I descried ybii. Yo> were about to be shot dead; there were nst more than two numbers before it came to your turn. What was Ito do? _ I was crazy; I uttered a cry, I seized you in my arms and in an agonized, desperate voice I exclaimed, “ Oh, not that one, my General, not that one!” The General pffcsidingover the execution, who already knew of me through my conduct of the previous evening, addressed me: “Why not? is he a-musician?” This word was to the what the light of day would be if made suddenly visible to a blind man. “A musician!” I exclaimed, “Yes* yes,. my General—a musiciaiT,~n great musician.” As for you, however, you had "fallen senseless. “ And on what instrument does he play?’ 1 asked the General. “On what instrument? On —on the—yes, that is it—that is so—on the cor-net-a-pistdn.” “Doyou need a cornet-a-piston?” pursued the General, addressing the bandmaster. The answer took five seconds—five centuries for me. “Yes, General, precisely,” said the bandmaster at last. “Then let them take this man from the ranks, and the execution proceed without delay.” I lifted you in all haste and taking you in my arms I carried you here.’

“ Raymond had not yet done speaking; I made but one bound and fell upon his neck, crying and laughing at the same time. ‘ I owe you my life,’ I exclaimed. “‘Not quite,’ replied Raymond. “‘Why so?' “ ‘ Do you know how to play the cornet-a-piston ?’ “‘I? No.” “ ‘ Well, then, that is cool!’ “ In fact, my children, I had suddenly become as cold as a marble statue. “ ‘ And music ?’ continued Raymond, ‘ do you understand music ?’ “ ‘ A little, very little; you know well enough what was taught us at college.’ “ Little enough, then, or, to come nearer the truth,, nothing. You are hopelessly lost, Und myself with you; they will call me traitor, and say that I intended t'o betray them. Before a fortnight the band of which you ought to make one will be organized.’ “A fortnight ?’ “ ‘ Neither more nor less, and, as you will not be able to play on the cornet-a-piston unless God works a miracle in your favor, they will shoot us both.’ “Shoot you!' I exclaimed. ‘You—for me, who owe you my life? O no! It is not possible. Heaven would not permit it. In a fortnight I will know music, and I will play the cornet-a-piston.’ “Raymond began to laugh. “ How shall I tell you, my children? In fifteen days—o power of will! —in fifteen days, the nights included—for I did not take a single moment of rest, even to sleep—in fifteen days I learned to play. “ Raymond and I went into the country, and together we passed the whole day with a musician of a neighboring village, wlio came to give me lessons. “‘But why not escape?’you areabout to ask. “Escape was impossible; I was still a prisoner, and closely watched. Raymond would not leave without me. “ I no longer spoke, I no longer thought, I no longer ate, I had but one single idea —music and a cornet-a-piston. I wanted to learn, and I learned. Dumb, I should have spoken; paralyzed, I should have walked; blind, I should have seen. We accomplished everything. ‘ Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ I willed it —that is the great word—and succeeded in it. Children, remember this truth. In this way I saved my life; but I became crazy. For three whole years my fingers never left the instrument. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do — the world contained nothing else for me; my life was passed in blowing. Raymond did not forsake me.

“ With him I emigrated to France and continued to play the cornet-a-piston. Everybody thronged to hear me; I was a prodigy, a wonder. The cornet-a-piston seemed to breathe beneath my touch; it sobbed, prayed, sighed, roared—it imitated a bird, a wild beast, the human voice even. My lungs were made of iron. “ Two years passed thus. At the end of this time Raymond chanced to die. The sight of the lifeless body brought back my reason. I took my instrument. I tried to play. Ino Idnger knew how. And now, my children, do>’you care to dance?”