Biddeford High School - Olympian Yearbook (Biddeford, ME)

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THE OLYMPIAN SYMPHONY The street lamps glowed dimly through the misty fog drifting in from the Thames. as London began to stir with the usual night life. Glittering women alighted from limousines, Hanked by the severe black and white of their compan- ions. while the air seemed to be filled with their light chatter and the trailing scents which followed after them. Everyone in l.ondon seemed to be go- ing somewhere, even Nicholas More. But he seemed curiously alone as he paid the cabby. and mounted the broad steps of the concert hall which was already fill- ing with people. A tall, well-formed man in faultless evening dress, he paused on the threshold after checking his hat and coat. then walked quickly down a side aisle to a seat in the dimly-lit wing. and sat there. waiting. The great hall was now filled to over- fiowing. and the high chatter of the wom- en, the buzzing undertone of the men, and the general movement, had increased to a small. roar. for all had come to hear the great -Tosef Volyanov conduct. The members of the large orchestra had slipped into their places. and had tuned their instruments. Suddenly a hush fell over the audience. as a short, white- haired man walked quickly across the stage. up to the small raised platform. and bowed to the applause. Turning, he rapped sharplv on the stand, raised his baton. let it fall. and the room was swept away bv the stirring strains of Dvorak's New VVorld Symphony. At first sight of the energetic little man. the thoughts of Nicholas More turned back, back to a rose garden in the south of France, where he had known Josef- and his daughter, lovely Ellen. The sun had shone down from brilliantly blue un- clouded skies in the day. the moon had shone softly down in gleaming radiance at night, and there he had loved Ellen- Ellen, who had had dark, laughing eyes. the blush of the roses in her cheeks, and a heart encased in an ivory shell! Painfully, he went back over the af- fair, from the first breathless beginning, to thedisastrous climax. .-X poor, young music student at the conservatory, he had met the great Volyauov, and the master had become interested in him, often inviting him to the villa in which he and his daughter were staying. More had met Ellen in the garden, and there he had carried on his shy courtship. Then one day, he heard that she had gone with an officer of the regiment. the night before, to gamble at the Casino. He rushed to her, filled with fiery indignation, to tax her with the truth. She admitted it, said that he. Nlore, was too poor to give her everything she wanted, and laughed in his face. Something broke within him, and cold and sick at heart, he stumbled away. XYithin an hour, he was on his way back to l.ondon. But he never knew that in that hour after he had left her, she had met with a grave accident, and had lain nearly dying for many weeks. After a time, when he had partly re- covered from the heartache, he had ob- tained a small position on the staff of a London paper, and since then had risen to the position of a music critic. Suddenly. More woke from his reverie with a start. Volyanov was speaking in loud. yet thin. tones which seemed to try to reach out over the audience. l have here a composition by this, as yet unknown. composer. She is my daughter. Ellen Volyanov, and I take pleasure in introducing her first sym- phony. More started violently, then shook his head in disbelief. Now the music began to steal out, dancing and tinkling, like the shallow brook: suddenly he saw Ellem in the garden. laughing. Higher and higher chattered the music, then a poisonous un- dertone of discord crept in. and grew and grew. until the music was not laughing any more. but was harsh and grating. Suddenly fell the crash of disaster! and he saw the tumult of a soul shaken to its foundations, and cast in ruins, with noth- f4 9

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THE OLYMPIAN Dak had picked up the gun that Krag had loaded for the Colonel. .X fragment of the gun barrel grazed the lion's side and the loud explosion startled him. causing him to Hee. Dak stoocl speechless. R E GA I N .-X boyish figure. leaning on the bridge rail. stood looking into the cold, running water .The night was dark. and the air was filled with mystery. VVhat a night for the end of all things. Vklhat peace! The boy looked homeless, broken, de- feated. Farther away, an old man was walk- ing towards the bridge. Although he was dressed shabbily, he looked as though he, at one time. had enjoyed the dignity and respect of all. I-Ie was distinguished- looking, in spite of the fact that he needed a shave and haircut. He too. looked homeless, broken, defeated. As he walked across the bridge. he noticed the frail boyish figure. and stopped to ask him where he could find a lodging for the evening at not an expensive place. The boy looked at him and told him that he could hnd. at the corner of the street. an extremely well-kept inn. Thank you. said the old man. I guess I will sit on this bench to rest a whilef' Silence prevailed for a few minutes. The old man broke the monotony by Sily' ing. Son. you' look extremely depressed, as if you were on the verge of jumping into that black. cold riverf' Yes. said the boy sadly, I was: but your abrupt arrival halted my impulse. VVhy, son, you're a young man-you have a whole life ahead of you. Wliat have you to be discouraged about? I'm an old man. The lighting youth in me has gone. But you, he mocked, you're young! VVhere's your lighting spirit? My lighting spirit? questioned the boy. 'Tm tired of hghting. Ever since I was born I had to fight for my exist- ence. You see. I'm an orphan. I was left at an orphanage at the age of six. l43l ll was as Colonel Bates had said when he viewed Peter Krag's body lying as he had tallen: A most peculiar accident. PAUL Gicnru N iam ED SOUL At the orphanage. the trustees were good enough to help me with my music. You see, I'm a violinist-or what's left of me. I went to New York as I had read much about the great fields it offered to people of all walks of life. There, I faced noth- ing but resentment from the upper class, and vulgarity in environment of the slum- classes. Somehow, I struggled along working as store clerk and doing other small jobs. Tired of struggling, I re- turned to this town-a failure. Night after night I've tried to end it all here. Son, the old man interrupted. you've just met the hard side of life. It is lar better to be a failure in your early twenties than in your late fifties. I-lad I your disappointments in early life. I wouldn't be sitting here today. Once upon a time I enjoyed the greater things of life. I was born in wealth. I had everything. Iiut still, son, I failed. I was too sure of myself. and instead of thinking of my inability to do any thing, I enjoyed life. VVhen my beloved parents died, I made blind investments with my inheritance. Now, I'm penni- lcssf' I-Ie gazed out into the night try- ing hard to keep back his tears. The young boy broke the silence say- ing. I feel silly having told you my sor- rows. Y ou. sir, you had something. But I had nothing to lose and weep about. I feel as though my lighting spirit is in me again. Good-bye. I must go now. You see, I've got to start early tomorrow and look for a job. As the boyish figure slowly dimished in the dark night, the old man gazed into the black water, and grumbled, I've saved that boy's life, even though I told a white lie. Vtlell, I guess I'll catch that freight.'J NIARY MARIELLO

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THE OLYMPIAN ing left but a flute. wailing in the un- utterable sadness. Silence. Then a hesitant. slow, but gradual rebuilding upon the one note left. The melody grew, and depth and beauty were added, which had not been there before. The song whispered. crooned, and ascended into a paean. not of joy. but of content. The audience burst into wild applause, renewed again and again, but Ixlore sat as if in a dream throughout the rest of program. VV hen it ended, he arose and made his way past the excitedly murmur- ing groups of admirers, past the con- gratulatory groups around Josef V al- yanov. and behind the stage to the dress- ing room. He opened the door and went 111. She was sitting there in the half light of a small lamp, with her hands 'folded in her lap, and her face turned away l'Ellen-oh, Ellenlu he cried. from him. Turning her face, she whispered, Nicky, After a long silence. in which she seemed to he gathering up her strength, she said: How are you. Nicky? It is long since I last saw you. I suppose you are married and have a family by now. I-le shook his head, and tried to interrupt. but she went on: No? That is a pity. One must he lonely. without a family. I have one. Papa Josef is a whole family wrapped in one. You must come to see us sometime, Nicky. We are in London for a fort- night. then we go to Australia. for an engagement in Melbourne. So you have composed a symphony, said More. stiffly, checked hy her reserve. l never thought you would inherit any of your father's genius. But one learns, and grows up to it, she answered. lt is my first, and you must be sure to say nice things about me -you are a critic now, are you not? I want to do a great deal more, but I :tm afraid l shall never be as great as Papa joseff' 1 can't stay any longerf' said More, desperately. I have an appointment, but perhaps I will come to see you again. Good-bye. Nicky, she calledg but all she heard was the door softly closing. The room. and her whole world, were dark. and must always be dark. Her head drooped, and the slow, bitter tears fell from her sightless eyes upon her fold- ed hands. Esrnizk Kl:INNIiDX', '40 'WVASH DAY The wind is making toy balloons of Dotty's printed frocks, And kicking up the saucy toes of twenty pairs of socks And pouring into pillow slips and stretch- ing every sheet And filling empty sleeping pants with puffy legs and feet. lt bulges out the tugging arms of shirts that want to Hy. Vtfhere trailing clothes of snowy white are blown along the sky. lt's washing day in Heaven, too, for On billowed line the angels robes are hanging out to dry. H. FRANCES PARISEAU, '42 l50l