ularity in the country is unbounded, as he is essentially one of his people. As the head of his highland clan, every peasant in the land, however poor, has a right to come to him for counsel or redress; and such is their affection for him, that no one would dream of questioning his judgment. We had been led to believe, before we came to Cetinje, that the home life of the Prince was as simple and unpretentious as that of a country squire. The Palace itself is certainly not more imposing than a wellappointed French château, or a first-rate Highland shooting-box. But the Prince himself does not appear to dispense with any of the forms and ceremonies which usually surround a ruling prince. We were ushered into His Highness' presence by an aid-de-camp, who acted his part of chamberlain with great elegance of deportment. And on our way to the audience chamber, on the first floor, we passed, drawn up in a kind of review order, a number of the stalwart body-guards of the Prince, each standing on a step of the staircase with a drawn saber in his hand. As soon, however, as our formal introduction to the Prince was ended, we were placed at our ease by the frankness and cordiality of his manner. The Hospodar, who is one of the largest men in his dominions, standing considerably over six feet, and with an almost Herculean depth of chest, was dressed in the national costume, with a revolver in his girdle, but without the kappa on his head. Unlike the rest of his race, he wears whiskers with his mustache, and these are trimmed in such a manner as to give to his somewhat swarthy features a distinctly Spanish look. These facial characteristics are very faithfully reproduced, as becomes an ardent admirer of his chief, in the features of M. Popovic, the Prince's secretary. The Prince, who was the first of his dynasty sent for education to Paris instead of to St. Petersburg, speaks French perfectly, and is, moreover, well acquainted with German, Italian, and Russian. We, who are more familiar with the Teutonic than any other foreign language, were soon engaged in conversation with the Prince upon his dearest topic-the welfare and development of his country. "You have, no doubt, been long enough in Cetinje," said the Prince, "to hear that my people have surnamed me the 'road country. maker.' Well, it is the highest title to which I aspire. I look forward to the completion of my road from Cattaro to Rjeka as the commencement of a new era in my For centuries we have been locked up in our highlands as in a prison. But when my new carriage-road is made, we hope to let the outer world see that we are neither so uncivilized, nor so ferocious, as we are sometimes reported to be." On my saying to the Prince that in my opinion the great want in the country was industrial occupation for the people, he replied: "Yes, but you must give us time. For five hundred years we have been engaged in constant war with the Turks upon the border. Our only thoughts have been for the freedom of our country. But now that our land is secured to us, and a lasting peace is at hand, we hope to show the world that Montenegro has sufficient re sources within herself to maintain her independence." But the lasting peace to which the Prince looked forward so hopefully as the regenerator of his country seemed already threatened. No sooner had we returned to the hotel from our interview, than news arrived from the war office at Podgoritza that the Turks were massing in force upon the Gusinje frontier. Hostilities between the Montenegrins and the Albanians had, we were assured, already commenced in a few slight skirmishes, and an army of at least 10,000 men would be immediately required by the Prince in order to occupy the territory. Immediately on receipt of this news, Dick and I bade farewell to the Vuko Volotic, and set off for Rjeka, where we took a loudra down the river to Zsabliak, whence we rode across the plains to Podgoritza. The rapidity of our flight was occasioned by our anxiety to witness the war. THE MUSICIAN'S IDEAL. FOR several years previous to my ac- understanding of his character became more quaintance with Herman Richter, his face complete, this circumstance explained ithad become familiar to me as a frequenter self. He was in the shadow of peculiar of classical concerts. On these occasions circumstances. I found a disposition by I had watched him with great interest. nature ardent and affectionate. As a child, He would usually enter the concert-hall already his only desire was to love and be with sullen features, and drop into his seat loved; but a vivid imagination so exaggerwith the air of one who, wrapped in medita- ated his bashfulness that, in time, it became tion, becomes oblivious of all surroundings. a lamentable want of self-confidence, rather But, under the sunshine of melody, the than a fitting modesty. His excitable temclouds upon his brow floated tremulously perament, while it magnified his expectaaway until, when he leaned forward listen- tions, equally intensified his disappointments, ing eagerly to the music, his features re- and frequently I have heard him express laxed, as though, weary of his own thoughts, deep regret at the frustration of a trivial he turned with relief to commune with hope. His parents died when he was very those of another. At one of these concerts young, and after their death he was obliged we happened to occupy adjoining seats, and to live with a distant relative, so cold and I ventured to address him concerning the unsympathetic that, until he made my acperformance. At first he seemed so embar-quaintance, there was no one to sweeten rassed that I almost regretted having spoken the bitterness of his thoughts. to him; but as the warmth with which I reasons I allowed him in the beginning of continued betrayed my deep interest in our friendship the comfort of my society as music, his manner lost much of its hesita- much as possible. Soon, however, I began tion and his conversation grew fluent, at to regard as a pleasure what at first I had times even enthusiastic. That evening's looked upon as a sacrifice. talk led to subsequent discussions, and our mutual regard finally ripened into a close friendship. As he was more than nineteen years of age when we first met, I was surprised to find that I was his only friend; but, as our intimacy developed and my For these His secluded life made music almost his sole enjoyment, and his keen appreciation of the beautiful gave him a thorough knowledge of the master-works of his art. was most in sympathy with those composers whose sentiment never degenerated into He maudlin melancholy, or whose intellectuality | never threw a fog over their subject. These, he contended, had followed through life a lofty ideal. This ideal he believed to have assumed the shape of a beautiful woman, whose form ever floated before their eyes, and with whom their thoughts were ever in communion. He himself claimed to have a similar ideal, and would describe it to me in terms of such extravagant admiration that I believe he had then already conceived a deep passion for some woman who at that time lived in his thoughts only, but whom he hoped one day to possess. Though he was a clever pianist, I could not persuade him to play before any one but myself. He could never overcome his nervousness, his fear of failure, and that intense bashfulness I have already mentioned. So he had placed a piano in his private apartment, and he could not be persuaded to perform on another instrument, or in the presence of others than myself, his only friend. I had chosen an artist's life, and many a pleasant evening we spent together, he looking over my sketches, criticising them candidly, but always encouragingly; while I was constantly exhorting him to cast aside his shyness, because I thought he might become, with proper instruction, not only one of the first pianists of the day, but also a leading composerfor he excelled in improvisation, and his intuitive knowledge of harmony and counterpoint was remarkable. It was his purpose, when he should become of age and obtain possession of the property left by his parents, which sufficed for a competency, to visit Europe and study music with the best foreign instructors; not with any intention to appear before the public, but simply to gratify his artistic impulse. As the course of instruction I had mapped out for myself included similar travels, we determined to journey together. This was not a very difficult matter to arrange, inasmuch as musical conservatories abroad are usually found in art centers, where the musician can draw inspiration with the artist and the poet. At last, we started on our journey; and, without having anything special happen to us, we arrived at a small town in Germany. Here our first inquiries concerned art matters. For in these ancient places there is generally a picture-gallery containing many old paintings and a small number of modern works. From what I could learn at the inn, the local exhibit seemed unusually attractive, but I was tired, and decided to defer my visit until the morrow. Herman, however, was restless, so I asked him to see the pictures and to give me his estimate of them. He assented, and after he had departed I began to arrange our baggage and attend to matters which this involved. About half an hour afterward I glanced out on the street, and, to my surprise, saw Herman approaching with unusual haste. A moment later he rushed into the room. I had never seen him in such a state of excitement. His cheeks glowed, his eyes were unnaturally brilliant, and his voice trembled as he ejaculated, while he grasped my arm: "Come! Come! You must see her! She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!--more beautiful than my ideal!" His manner was so earnest that remonstrance died on my lips. So great was his haste that I had difficulty in keeping pace with him, and, when I attempted to retard my steps, he would hurry me along by the arm, exclaiming : "Come! She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." At last we came to an old building, and this we entered. I saw at once that we were in an art museum. He hurried me through the hall and through several rooms, without noticing the surrounding statues and antiques, until we reached a room whose walls were covered with paintings. Here he halted and looked around. I followed his glance until it rested on a small, dark passage-way which led into another room. Two houses had evidently been thrown into one, for the passage-way was unusually long-and I accounted for this by the fact that it was cut through two walls whose thickness was part of the thorough architecture of olden time. His hasty manner became more subdued, and he approached the entrance as though he were nearing a sanctuary. He did not enter, but stood before it gazing at some object within. As I joined him I beheld, immediately opposite in the other room, one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen. Though he did not tell me, I knew he must have recognized this as the pictorial embodiment of his musical ideal. I forgot for an instant that my eyes were resting on a canvas; there was living beauty in the features before me. It was an exquisite portrait of a young girl. The breath of roses lingered upon her cheeks, and her deep blue eyes peered through the golden hair that fell in idle ringlets over her brow. The painter appeared to have chosen a moment when her thoughts were far above this earth-her dreamy, absent gaze seemed to rest upon some fair offspring of a pure imagination. The passage-way was dimly lighted, and around about her hung desolate paintings by some unknown old masters; and this fair creature shone through this darkness as of a dreary night the rays of a solitary star break through the somber heavens. For a long time we remained gazing in silence. Then I asked, "Who is she?" "I do not know," he said, in a nervous, tremulous voice. "I do not know; but we will soon find out. This picture arrived here recently from Paris. I have the name and the address of the artist. I never heard the name. He must be a young man. He will show her to me. I must see her. I must know her. We leave here early to-morrow morning. In two days we can be in Paris. If ever you loved me help me now, for I cannot help myself." Poor fellow! I pitied him for this nervous excitement. I could not move him from the spot until darkness set in, and we were informed we could no longer remain in the building. He spoke of nothing but the picture the entire evening. It had so played upon his imagination that I saw an attempt to dissuade him from visiting the artist in Paris would be vain. Even when he fell asleep while I was preparing for our journey, I noticed that his dreams were troubled and his slumbers restless. So I hastened the preparations for our departure, and next day we started. But We reached Paris on the evening of the second day. A drizzling rain chilled the atmosphere, and it was a dreary night. Herman had been so nervous that he had scarcely closed his eyes during the journey, and I was alarmed at his condition. he turned a deaf ear to my entreaties to rest, and insisted upon seeing the artist at once. His manner was so urgent that I saw opposition would be a waste of time; so I hailed the nearest conveyance. As I gave the driver the address, he said, hesitatingly : "Is monsieur sure of the address? The distance is great, and but few travelers go to that part of the town." I again asked Herman to desist, but to no purpose. The miserable weather caused the better parts of the city to look gloomy enough. But, as we hastened on, the surroundings grew gloomier still, for the streets became narrower and lonelier; and I noticed we were fast approaching a desolate quarter of the city. At last we stopped before a dingy-looking house. As we neared the door we heard loud, quarrelsome voices within; then a heavy fall, and oaths in quick succession. I had not the heart to knock, but nothing could stay Herman. As the door opened, our eyes rested upon a loathsome spectacle. A stout woman, in the stupor of gross intoxication, was lying upon the floor, and by her side an empty bottle. A strong odor of spirits pervaded the house. Poverty, hunger, and despair were depicted in the features of the old man who ushered us into a miserable room, which seemed to serve as kitchen, bedroom, and studio. But I knew we were in the right house, for on the wall hung a copy of the picture we had seen two days before. My friend saw it immediately, and said: "Are you the artist who painted that picture?" "I am," was the reply. "I will give you all this," said Herman, throwing down a handful of money on the table, and pointing to the portrait, "if you will show me who sat for you." As Herman leaned anxiously forward to catch the reply, I could not tell whether the look of pity or the sarcastic smile predominated in the artist's face. He replied: "That picture, monsieur, was completed twenty years ago; it is a portrait of my wife before we were married. You have seen my wife; she is the lady lying in the hall. I sold the original years ago, in Paris. When it was exhibited, a great future was predicted for me, but He pointed in the direction of the prostrate woman. After the first words the artist uttered Herman grew pale, and trembled so violently that I sprang to his side to support him, if necessary. When the artist had finished, I grasped my friend's arm and hurried him out. As we passed the woman he gave her a glance of despair, and then looked back at the picture. I dragged him away, and ordered that we should be driven with all possible speed to the nearest hotel. I felt alarmed for Herman. He did not speak a word; he seemed listless to all I said, and trembled violently. When we reached a resting-place I sent for the nearest physician. When he arrived he found my friend in a raging fever, calling deliriously for the picture. When, on the third day, his fever and delirium increased, the physician pronounced his case hopeless. A week after we had reached Paris, Herman Richter died, in his twenty-second year. |