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escorting the four young people to their car. But out in the dark street, with a cold rain

falling, doubts began to assail him, and he wondered if the amiable Rhinelanders had guns for

their protection.

However, no Nazi cars followed, and no Stormtroopers were waiting at the Hotel Monopol.

Next morning they drove to the border, and nobody searched Hansi's two violin cases for

dynamite. They went through the routine performance of declaring what money they were

taking out of the country, and were then passed over to the Belgian customs men. Lanny

remembered the day when he had been ordered out of Italy, and with what relief he had

seen French uniforms and heard French voices. Eight years had passed, and Benito, the

"Blessed Little Pouter Pigeon," was still haughtily declaring that his successor had not yet been

born. Now his feat was being duplicated in another and far more powerful land, and rumors

had it that he was giving advice. In how many more countries would Lanny Budd see that

pattern followed? How many more transformations would it undergo? Would the Japanese

conquerors of Manchuria adopt some new-colored shirts or kimonos? Or would it be the Croix

de Feu in France? Or Mosley's group in England? And if so, to what part of the world would

the lovers of freedom move?

VIII

The tall slender figure of Hansi Robin stood before the audience in the symphony hall; an

audience of fastidious Parisians whose greeting was reserved. In the front row sat Lanny,

Irma, and Bess, greatly excited. Hansi's appearance was grave and his bows dignified; he

knew that this performance was an important one, but was not too nervous, having learned

by now what he could do. The conductor was a Frenchman who had given a long life to the

service of the art he loved; his hair had grown white, and what was left of it stood out as a

fringe under his shiny bald pate. He tapped upon the edge of his stand and raised his baton;

there came four beats of the kettledrum, followed by a few notes of a timid marching song;

then four more beats, and more notes. It was Beethoven's violin concerto.

Hansi stood waiting, with his instrument in the crook of his arm and his bow at his side; the

introduction is elaborate, and not even by a movement of his eyes would he distract anyone's

attention from the sounds. Lanny Budd, in the front row with his wife and Bess, knew every

note of this composition, and had played a piano transcription of the orchestral part for Hansi at

Les Forêts, on that fateful day seven years ago when Bess had first met the shepherd boy out of

ancient Judea and fallen under his spell. That was one reason why Hansi made a specialty of

this concerto; love infused his rendition, as love has a way of doing with whatever it touches.

The march acquired the firm tread of Beethoven; the orchestra thundered, and Lanny

wanted to say: "Careful, Maestro. He didn't have so many instruments!" But the conductor's

expressive hands signed for gentleness as Hansi's bow touched the strings. The song floated

forth, gay yet tender, gentle yet strong-those high qualities which the soul of Beethoven

possessed and which the soul of Hansi honored. The fiddle sang and the orchestra made

comments upon it; various instruments took up the melody, while Hansi wove embroidery

about it, danced around it, over and under it, leaping, skipping, flying in feats of gay

acrobatics. A concerto is a device to exhibit the possibilities of a musical instrument; but at its

best it may also illustrate the possibilities of the human spirit, its joys and griefs, toils and

triumphs, glories and grandeurs. Men and women plod through their daily routine, they

become tired and insensitive, skeptical or worse; then comes a master spirit and flings open

the gates of their being, and they realize how much they have been missing in their lives.

For more than twenty years this sensitive young Jew had consecrated himself to one special

skill; he had made himself a slave to some pieces of wood, strips of pig's intestine, and hairs

from a horse's tail. With such unlikely agencies Beethoven and Hansi contrived to express the

richness, elegance, and variety of life. They took you into the workshop of the universe,

where its miracles are planned and executed; the original mass-production process which

turns out the myriad leaves of trees and the petals of flowers, the wings of insects and birds,

the patterns of snow crystals and solar systems. Beethoven and Hansi revealed the operation of

that machinery from which color and delicacy, power and splendor are poured forth in

unceasing floods.

Lanny had made so many puns upon the name of his brother-in-law that he had ceased to

think of them as such. There was nothing in the physical aspect of Hansi to suggest the robin,

but when you listened to his music you remembered that the robin's wings are marvels of

lightness and grace, and that every feather is a separate triumph. The robin's heart is strong,

and he flies without stopping, on and on, to lands beyond the seas. He flies high into the upper

registers, among the harmonic notes, where sensations are keener than any known upon earth.

The swift runs of Hansi's violin were the swooping and darting of all the birds; the long trills

were the fluttering of the humming-bird's wings, purple, green, and gold in the sunlight,

hovering, seeming motionless; each moment you expect it to dart away, but there it remains, an

enchantment.

IX

Hansi was playing the elaborate cadenza. No other sound in the auditorium; the men of the

orchestra sat as if they were images, and the audience the same. Up and down the scale rushed

the flying notes; up like the wind through the pine trees on a mountain-side, down like

cascades of water, flashing rainbows in the sunshine. Beethoven had performed the feat of

weaving his two themes in counterpoint, and Hansi performed the feat of playing trills with

two of his fingers and a melody with the other two. Only a musician could know how many

years of labor it takes to train nerves and muscles for such "double-stopping," but everyone

could know that it was beautiful and at the same time that it was wild.

The second movement is a prayer, and grief is mixed with its longing; so Hansi could tell

those things which burdened his spirit. He could say that the world was a hard and cruel

place, and that his poor people were in agony. "Born to sorrow—born to sorrow," moaned the

wood-winds, and Hansi's violin notes hovered over them, murmuring pity. But one does not

weep long with Beethoven; he turns pain into beauty, and it would be hard to find in all his

treasury a single work in which he leaves you in despair. There comes a rush of courage and

determination, and the theme of grief turns into a dance. The composer of this concerto,

humiliated and enraged because the soldiers of Napoleon had seized his beloved Vienna, went

out into the woods alone and reminded himself that world conquerors come and go, but love

and joy live on in the hearts of men.

"Oh, come, be merry, oh, come be jolly, come one, come all and dance with me!" Lanny

amused himself by finding words for musical themes. This dance went over flower-strewn

meadows; breezes swept ahead of it, and the creatures of nature joined the gay procession,

birds fluttering in the air, rabbits and other delightful things scampering on the ground. Hand

in hand came young people in flowing garments. "Oh, youths and maidens, oh, youths and

maidens, come laugh, and sing, and dance with me!" It was the Isadora rout that Lanny would