Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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 THE CHATEAU ON THE BLUFF HONORABLE MENTION By Janies Wheble WELVE miles south of Paris, nestled in the heart of a group of picturesque hills, lies the small village of Dunne. It was here that my friend M. LeSage and I experienced one of the most harrowing adventures we have ever known. We were driving north from Marseilles to Paris on this occasion and it being nearly dusk, we decided to put up at this village for the night. As our car nosed over the brow of the hill, we had an excellent view of the place. It was situated in the south end of a small valley about a half mile wide and twice as long. The village was quite compact and it was surrounded by flow- ing wheat fields that extended up the sides of the slopes. A long, dusty, ribbon-like road led our eye to the northern end of the valley and then dis- appeared among the hills. What attracted our attention was a huge chateau built on the edge of a high bluff overlooking the entire valley. At present it was too far away to see plainly, but even from where we were, it had a dark and ominous appearance. Though the village was not known very well to tourists, we eventually found a small rooming house. Here we made reservations and after transferring our belongings to our room, parked the car in a woodshed for the night. That evening we ate a hearty supper, for we were very hungry. Later we settled ourselves in some ancient and none too comfortable rocking chairs in the main room of the house. For an hour or so my companion and I sat there by ourselves, smoking and conversing in low tones. The house and nearby neighborhood were very quiet, so quiet at times that we could hear the clock ticking in the next room. At last we heard footsteps in the adjoining chamber and slowly the door swung open admitting to us an elderly gentleman. He wore a black coat that 15

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 FIVE MINUTES WITH FABIEN SEVITSKY AN INTERVIEW By Joseph Burry LAY for me something” was Mr. Sevitsky’s request as my turn came for the audition which would, perhaps, make me a member of his Young Musicians’ Orchestra. Later, as Mr. Sevitsky entered the rehearsal room, took off his raccoon coat and gave it to Phoebe his personal and theatrical secretary, to hang up, he called out, Good Morning, childr-r-en. You sleep well last night? Take out 'Cavalleria Rusticana’.” Soon a call rang out, Turom-pets too loud! Pianissimo! Not fortissimo!” When later I approached him for this interview, he greeted me with, How do you do, Mr. Interviewer. You have only five minutes. I learned that he was born and brought up in the central part of Russia, where he attended the Petrograd Conservatory of Music, and there, upon his graduation, was presented a gold medal, the highest of all scholarships or diplomas. He immediately decided to become a doctor and, accordingly, enrolled at the University of Petrograd. The medical course, however, did not appeal to him. He preferred music. Mr. Sevitsky is one of the outstanding bass viol soloists in the world. He was twice winner of the Imperial Conservatory of Petrograd contests. He was also bass soloist in the Imperial Theatre in Moscow. Mr. Sevitsky came to this country in 1923, where he founded the Philadel- phia Chamber String Simfonietta, which he still conducts. He intends to re- main in this country. He is an American citizen and has been for the past ten years. His Boston orchestras are the Metropolitan Theater Grand and the People’s Symphony. Fabien Sevitsky has conducted some world-famous orchestras, among which are the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra, the Berlin, the Paris, the Warsaw and the Vienna Symphony Orchestras. The Fabien Sevitsky Ensembles, both instrumental and vocal, and the Young Musicians’ Orchestra are his special interests. He has some very fascinating hobbies. He has one of the finest collections of musical scores in the country. Strangely enough, he collects neckties and canes. Incidentally, Mr. Sevitsky always carries a cane, and is a fastidious dresser. He sponsors the Young People’s Orchestra, Vocal, and Piano Con- tests, in order to devote his musical knowledge to youth, and to become ac- quainted with the musical talent around Boston. He likes everything that is good and nothing that is bad.” Davisson,

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'The Cjolden Roc) certainly was not his Sunday best, with a huge bow necktie of the same color and long baggy trousers of a greyish hue patched in places and torn at the cuffs. His features were rough and slightly weatherbeaten, such as those of r man who had to work hard all his life, but in spite of this, his face had a kind and honest look. ' Bonjour, messieurs,” he said, in a welcoming manner. M. LcSage answered him, he introduced himself as our host, and soon all three of us were in earnest conversation. Our new friend invited us to make ourselves entirely at home and told us everything in his house was at our dis- posal. From him we learned the name of the village, some of its history, and many facts about the surrounding country. At length I ventured to ask about the chateau in the north end of the valley. His face suddenly became grave and lost its light aspect. May I be so rude as to ask, why you ask this?” his voice was strange and puzzled. Simply curiosity, sir. You see we noticed it as we drove over the hill be- hind the village.” I began to apologize, what for I really do not know, but he cut me short saying: I am sorry for my rudeness, monsieur, but you see to us villagers that chateau seems an excellent place to keep away from. Many of the people of our community arc superstitious. I myself am not, but with the history of the subject in question ringing in our ears, even I, who am a firm believer that there is no such thing as the supernatural, have always given it a wide berth.” M. LeSage and I became immediately curious and begged our host to tell us its story. Here, I thought, was an article for the newspaper for which I worked in Paris. Reluctantly he consented to tell us. Finally he began: What I am to tell you, you may not believe, at least not parts of it, but this is the story of what my eldest brother, long since dead, related to me. My story begins back in 1843. At that time the chateau which you saw from the hill was owned by one Jacques Dumont, a rich Frenchman, said to be a descendant of Louis XVI who was overthrown in the French Revolution. Jacques Dumont was a very rich man and also very stern. As a business man he was hard and relentless, never having compassion on a competitor and so it was natural that these traits should follow him in private life. Now, Dumont had a son named Albert for whom he had prepared many plans, in fact he had nearly laid the boy’s life out before him, but Albert did not live up to these plans. The boy was addicted to the gay night life of Paris and would po orf for days and often a week at a time to make merry at the capital. Finally the father, who was used to having his own way, decided to have it out with his son. It was rumored that they argued for a whole night and in the end nearly came to blows. The most important result was that the father, in his wrath, disowned his son and ordered him out of the house. Albert left and was not heard of again for many years.