The Fires of Spring by James A. Michener
Bobby Creighton understood David very well. If the opposing team could be demoralized, everyone passed to David. The slim wiry boy could easily score four or five baskets in the first half, and the rout would be on. But when the opponents were big and tough—the favorites—Harry Moomaugh got most of the passes. He was rugged and fearless and never wilted under fire; so after he had mauled the guards for three quarters and been ejected on fouls, the team would pass to David, still fresh and springy, and David would shoot from any position and ring up three or four goals in a hurry.
David understood this strategy. He sensed that much as Bobby Creighton liked him, the coach knew that there was only one dependable, utterly fearless competitor on the team, and that one was Harry Moomaugh. The young fighter understood, too, and a warm friendship grew between the two stars. They always rode together when the team played away from home, and when in the distance the enemy city appeared they would share a moment of intense excitement. Each boy would mutter to himself: “They’ll be laying for us tonight. Because we’re the champs!”
At the gymnasium David and Harry would grab their bags and step into the cold air. “That’s them!” the hangers-on would cry. “The big one’s roughneck Moomaugh. Nnnyaaah!” But David was the special butt of jeers, for his habit of staying out of the roughhouses until he got a good pass infuriated the spectators. “There he is! Harper the Sleeper! Nnnyaaah!”
That was the glorious moment! To feel yourself among the hostile crowd, to hear them shouting at you, and to know that later that night when you dropped a couple in from the middle of the floor they would be cheering—that was exciting. At such moments he liked to be near Harry Moomaugh, for he knew that under his breath Harry was swearing: “Wait, you muggs! Wait till the whistle blows!”
But even more cherishable were the games at home when he could hear the last wild shout of obvious pride the people of Doylestown took in their team. At times the cheering became so intoxicating that David began to make impossible shots, as if he were not responsible for them, and the roar would increase; but always underlying it, like the firm beat of the sea beneath spurious waves, came the quiet voice of Bobby Creighton: “Come on, Harper!” It was the strongest voice David had ever known. It was his conscience and his will.
David’s second summer at Paradise was more exciting than the first. He became known as an important cashier. He began to shave, too, and stood very straight, for word had circulated that he was a star athlete.
After diligent application, he regained his nimbleness in making false change. Once or twice the conscience that had begun to develop in basketball troubled him, and he spoke to Mr. Stone. “Forget it,” the lean gray man advised. “You got to accept the customs of any job. The Company don’t call it stealing, if you concentrate on the customers. You and I are expected to make our salary off the peasants.”
David became known as an incorruptible. He carried himself like a man and discovered with pleasure that he was now taller than Mr. Stone. He went several times to the secret room in the Coal Mine, but Nora had not yet returned from Florida. “She’s a thin little number,” big Betty joked, “but I’ll bet she’s giving that old man the ride of his life.” Then a happy thought came to her. “There’s a new girl here, Dave. You’d like her. Name’s Louise.”
“I was looking for Nora,” David explained.
“I saw you in the Perkasie game,” Betty added. “You were red hot.”
“Thanks,” David replied, retreating through the murky scaffolding.
Paradise was excellent that summer, for that was the year he became friends with Capt. John Philip Sousa, then an old man. For many years Sousa had conducted summer concerts at Paradise, where he was revered and loved. At his table in the big Casino celebrities gathered daily to pay him homage. The March King was modest, quiet, friendly to the young, and courteous to everyone. Mr. Stone said, “This is a young admirer of yours,” and Capt. Sousa nodded gravely. He looked across the white and silvery Casino to where a man stood with a very beautiful woman. David noticed that the man was dark and that he moved with a delicate grace. But he forgot the man when he saw the young woman who that summer was singing for Capt. Sousa. Mary Meigs was then about twenty, slim, blue-eyed, blonde, and lovely in a breath-taking way. David never lost that first image of her, nor did he ever forget his first involuntary thought: “The man’s embarrassed, but she likes to stand there. Look! She’s turning her head so that more people can see her.”
“Klementi!” Capt. Sousa cried. The tall man, blushing at the sound of his name, saluted the great bandmaster by clicking his heels and bowing stiffly from the waist. Sousa raised his right forefinger and dropped it, quite in the manner he used to start his concerts. The tall visitor led his partner to the table, and she walked with a grace that seemed to be unreal, keeping her head forward in a bored sort of way, but twisting it ever so slightly so that her exquisite profile showed to advantage.
“Miss Mary Meigs,” Capt. Sousa began. “My friend Mr. Stone, and his friend, Master Harper.” David winced at the appellation. “And this is Klementi Kol, a very fine musician of the Philadelphia Orchestra. Klementi is going to conduct his own orchestra during my vacation. My friends, be seated.” He dropped his hands at them as if they were so many clarinetists. “How’s your orchestra, Klim?” he inquired.
“I can’t get all the men I want,” Kol replied. “You can imagine how it is. Playing with Kincaid and Tabuteau all winter spoils you for the summer.” The tall musician spoke with lovely grace.
“It’s been pleasant up here,” Sousa replied. “I do miss Victor Herbert, though.” He chuckled. “People used to come to me and whisper, “I like you ever so much better than Victor Herbert.’ I’m sure they told him the same.”
“What are you singing tonight, Miss Meigs?” Mr. Stone inquired.
“Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life and Just a Kiss,” the lovely singer replied. David was delighted with the quality of her voice. He thought: “I’ve never seen such fine people. I’ll bet she’s in love with Mr. Kol.” He hoped his surmise was correct.
As the dinner progressed—David’s first in a fine restaurant—Sousa insisted that his guests occupy his private box at the concerts. David was so pleased by such an unexpected pleasure that he actually closed his eyes and bit his lips. Sousa noted this and asked, “Do you like music?” David did not reply and Mr. Stone nudged him.
“Me?” he blurted. “Oh, yes!”
“Then I’ll play the encore for you,” Sousa said graciously. “What would you like?”
David could think of nothing. He knew no music by name, but then he recalled his picnic with Mr. Paxson. “Stars and Stripes!” he shouted.
Capt. Sousa laughed and said, “We have to save that for the last concert.” He became interested in David and bent toward him. “What’s your second choice?” he asked.
There was a wretched moment of silence and Mr. Stone guessed what was the matter. “How about Semper Fidelis?” he suggested.
“That’s it!” David fairly shouted. Then, ashamed of himself and determined to retrieve his position, he took a blind stab. “Isn’t that the one that goes …” He hummed very softly. Capt. Sousa smiled and patted him on the hand.
“That’s exactly the way it goes,” he said. “Only louder.” David blushed. He wanted to throw his arms wide and embrace these exciting people. He said to himself: “Mr Stone was right! Suppose I had got mixed up with Max Volo? What if that spotter had caught me? I’d be in jail now.” As on the basketball floor, the thought was horrible. He felt that everyone must be watching him squirm. Only Miss Meigs was. She smiled at him.
“What kind of music do you like best?” she asked.
“All kinds!” he replied expansively.
“Do you like Carmen?” she continued. “That’s my favorite.” David gulped. Again he had trapped himself. His mind started to work furiously. “What do I know about Carmen? I’ve heard that name before.” Then he saw Old Daniel’s book. There was the wood
“Yes,” he exploded. “About the Spanish gypsy.” Miss Meigs studied the boy’s eager face and liked the frank look of joy it wore. She was about to speak when Capt. Sousa rose.
“In the second concert you’ll hear excerpts from Carmen,” he announced.
“Carmen! With a full band!” Klementi cried. “Excellent!” He shook Capt. Sousa’s hand with pleasure. In the excitement of leaving the Casino and going to the concert David was forgotten by everyone except Miss Meigs. She continued to watch him and laughed to herself as she saw him studying Klementi Kol so as to know how to behave and how to say the right things, for less than three years ago Klementi had taught her the same things.
Between the first and second concerts Mr. Stone took his friends about the Park. He was careful to explain everything to Miss Meigs, and David clearly saw that Mr. Stone was proud to be seen with the handsome girl. Cool, fixing her hair with her left hand, tilting her chin when she was being watched, she glided along with her three escorts; and David discovered that he, too, was very proud when he heard visitors whispering, “That’s Sousa’s new singer!”
They rode on the gentler rides and laughed together on the gondola that took them through the dark Canals of Venice. The evening was spoiled, however, shortly after they left Venice, for David’s name was called by a bright, brassy voice. It was Nora. She was dressed in a tight-fitting dress that accentuated her slimness and her full bosom. Her hair was in curls and she had on a good deal of make-up.
“Hello, kid!” she cried, and then, seeing the well-dressed people with David, she put her hand to her bright mouth and said, “I didn’t know you were with a party.”
David was embarrassed and wished that Nora had not seen him. Then he thought: “Well, she’s my friend,” and awkwardly he introduced her. Then he asked, “Whyn’t you join us?” He hoped she would say no.
“Could I?” she asked eagerly. There was a long pause, during which David twisted his toes waiting for Mr. Stone to speak, but the gray cashier stared angrily at the lake. Finally David took Nora by the hand and said, “Sure, come along. It’s not fair for Miss Meigs to have three men. Heh, heh.” But nobody laughed.
On the rides Nora sat with David and put her arm about him, for even short dips frightened her, but she sensed that this embarrassed the boy and she whispered, “I feel rotten with these people. I don’t belong.” David looked at her and winked, even though he knew that the enraged Mr. Stone was watching him. In added perversity he insisted that Nora join them in Capt. Sousa’s box, but this made Mr. Stone so furious that the concert was a chilly failure. That is, it was a failure until the very end of Stars and Stripes, when Nora gripped David and cried, “God! The way those flutes tear up and down! It makes you shiver!” and that was precisely how David always felt, but of all the people he would ever know in the world, only Nora would ever react to the music as he did.
He became glad that he had invited her, and in front of everyone he kissed her good night. This was too much for Mr. Stone, and when the others had left, he hauled David down to the lakeside. “You stupid fool!” he exclaimed. He would have struck David, but crowds had gathered for the fountain display. Instead he twisted the boy’s arm until the skin ached. “I introduce you to my friends! Great musicians! And you dig up a cheap, perfumed little whore.” He grew pale in the face and said harshly, “You’re a poorhouse kid and you don’t know anything. It’s time you learned. There’s two worlds, you stupid ass, and they don’t mix. If you want to throw away your life in Max Volo’s Coal Mine, all right. But you can’t drag that filth into my parties! A cheap South Philadelphia whore!”
That night, when the rest of the poorhouse slept, David tried to write a poem. Sousa, Mr. Stone, Klementi Kol, and Nora were all mixed up in it, and it was terrible. He took a fresh sheet and wrote, almost without effort, a poem of clear and sensitive focus. It began: “By the dark moss a dog-tooth violet …” It was his first love poem, but in it no girl appeared. When he finished, dawn had come from the east, and he found that his poem expressed exactly what was in his heart. It was a love poem to the confused wonder of the world, the throbbing, simple things that had been about him since that first cold, silent night when his mother had carried him into the yard to listen for the wild geese flying north.
The day finally came when Capt. Sousa started his vacation, and then Klementi Kol took charge of the music. With a group of musicians from the Philadelphia Orchestra he formed the Kol Symphony. When the first concert was given, David listened attentively and decided firmly that a symphony orchestra was a pretty poor substitute for a band. There wasn’t much noise and the pieces they played were not easy to whistle. He wondered contemptuously what Klementi Kol and his swaying fiddlers could do with a piece like Field Artillery! “What would they use for bass drums? Who would fire the pistol?”
At the second concert, however, Klementi started with that good music which David had learned from Capt. Sousa, William Tell Overture. Reluctantly David had to admit that this was pretty thrilling stuff, even with a symphony. Then Kol rapped for attention, and the audience leaned forward as if some great thing were to happen. The baton fell with startling suddenness, and from the orchestra came a whisper of strings, then a cascading melody, then flight and retreat, and epic marching. When the drums rumbled softly they seemed to be more like violins than tympani. The flutes and horns did strange, unpredictable things, and always the strings rustled on and danced and cried out. The music was unbearably majestic, and in that moment David swore: “I’ll hear all the music in the world if it’s like that!”
Others in the audience must have felt the same way, for they cheered and stamped and made Klementi take many bows. “What was that music?” David asked. A man in a high stiff collar and black suit smiled.
“You don’t know that, sonny? Well, you just heard the music from Tannhäuser.”
“What’s that?” David inquired.
“It’s an opera,” the man beamed.
“I thought people sang in an opera,” David said.
“Oh!” the man quickly explained. “A real opera is twice as good as this. Tonight was just the music.”
“Twice as good?” David queried. When the man nodded enthusiastically, David stuck his eager nose into the night air and stared back. “Hmm,” he said.
After the concert David felt that he must speak with Klementi Kol, so he dawdled by the bandstand until the musicians filed out.
Finally the tall conductor appeared, accompanied by Mary Meigs, fair and beautiful. David hurried up to them and mumbled, “Excuse me. I met you with Capt. Sousa.”
“Of course you did!” the tall man replied, bowing graciously.
“I thought the music was wonderful,” David said quietly.
“Thank you,” Kol replied. “Do you work here in the Park?”
“Yes. I listen to the music whenever I can.”
“Then why don’t you come by some Tuesday or Thursday and help us practice?”
David did not know what to say or do. Obviously he should not shake hands, so he bowed from the waist, very low.
“How sweet!” Mary Meigs said. She smiled at the boy.
On Tuesday David was waiting at the bandstand at nine in the morning. He was still there, alone, at ten and at eleven. At eleven-thirty musicians started to appear, clean, interesting-looking men. Toward twelve Kol himself came onstage and seeing David cried, “Oh, no! You sit up here with me!” He placed David on a chair beside him and the rehearsal started. It was the first movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, and from that noble start David launched into the full, wonderful world of symphonic music. He felt an immediate sympathy between himself and the music and within a week he sensed the perfect structure of the finest symphonies.
Kol insisted that David have lunch with him, and occasionally Mary Meigs joined them. She called David, “Our young Toscanini,” and from that chance remark David built his knowledge of the leading conductors.
“Was he an artist or a poet?” David inquired.
“A poet. A very great one. Do you know his poems?”
“I never heard of him or his poems,” David admitted.
“Diable! What do they teach you in school?”
“Sir Walter Scott.”
“Ach, no!” Furiously Klementi left the lunch table and dragged David back to the bandstand, muttering as he went, “Scott! No Keats, I suppose. No Shelley? And of course no Spitteler or Baudelaire! Ah, the corruption of youth!” He rummaged among his personal luggage and produced a dogeared volume of poems. “Read this!” he commanded.
One of the poems David could not understand. He called it The Ballad of Reading Gaol. The title was confusing and finally he asked Klementi about it. “It’s simple,” Kol said. “That’s where they put him, in Reading gaol.” David looked at the title again and blushed. “So while he was in gaol,” Klementi continued, “he studied this man who had killed his sweetheart. Now do you understand?”