This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By Gilbert Parker
Montreal and Quebec, dear to the fortunes of such men as Iberville, wereas cheerful in the still iron winter as any city under any more cordialsky then or now: men loved, hated, made and broke bargains, lied towomen, kept a foolish honour with each other, and did deeds of valour fora song, as ever they did from the beginning of the world. Through thestern soul of Nature ran the temperament of men who had hearts of summer;and if, on a certain notable day in Iberville's life, one could havelooked through the window of a low stone house in Notre Dame Street,Montreal, one could have seen a priest joyously playing a violin; thougheven in Europe, Maggini and Stradivarius were but little known, and theinstrument itself was often called an invention of the devil.
The room was not ornamented, save by a crucifix, a pleasant pencil-drawing of Bishop Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword, and alittle shrine in one corner, wherein were relics of a saint. Ofnecessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in thecase of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at anangle from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.
The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, thatwhen, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filledhim, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. Hisshoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by hiscassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under hischin like a mere toy. In the eye was a penetrating but abstracted look,and the countenance had the gravity of a priest lighted by a cheerfulsoul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once, attackedby two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and the back ofthe other, and had then picked them up and carried them for miles toshelter and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic that theman with the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered leg,recovering also, found that his foot, pointing backwards, "made a fool ofhis nose."
The Abbe de Casson's life had one affection, which had taken theplace of others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, andindifference. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musicianwas infinitely farther off: the miles which the Church measures betweenthe priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such asDollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannotdrive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the treemust die-burst with the very misery of its richness.
This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: ofmemory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for someone whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More andmore did the broad sonorous notes fill the room. At length they ceased,and with a sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.
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