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diff --git a/40259-8.txt b/40259-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eccce7d..0000000 --- a/40259-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10624 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Charles Auchester, Volume 2 (of 2), by Elizabeth Sheppard - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Charles Auchester, Volume 2 (of 2) - -Author: Elizabeth Sheppard - -Release Date: July 16, 2012 [EBook #40259] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES AUCHESTER, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) *** - - - - -Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - - Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have - been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - The following possible typographical errors were left uncorrected: - Page 173: "musical electicism" should possibly be "musical - eclecticism" - Page 228: "eflish mood" should possibly be "elfish mood" - Page 295: "Dunisnane" should possibly be "Dunsinane" - - - - - CHARLES AUCHESTER - - VOLUME II. - - [Illustration: MENDELSSOHN - FROM A SKETCH MADE IN HIS YOUTH.] - - - - - CHARLES AUCHESTER - - BY - ELIZABETH SHEPPARD - - _WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_ - By GEORGE P. UPTON - - AUTHOR OF "THE STANDARD OPERAS," "STANDARD ORATORIOS," "STANDARD - CANTATAS," "STANDARD SYMPHONIES," "WOMAN IN MUSIC," ETC. - - In Two Volumes - - VOLUME II. - A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY - CHICAGO - 1891 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, - BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO. - A. D. 1891. - - - - -CHARLES AUCHESTER. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Well, as if but yesterday, do I remember the morning I set out from -Lorbeerstadt for Cecilia. I had no friends yet with whom to -reconnoitre novel ground; I was quite solitary in my intentions, and -rather troubled with a vague melancholy, the sun being under cloud, -and I not having wished Aronach good-day. He was out in the town -fulfilling the duties of his scholastic pre-eminence, and I had vainly -sought him for an audience. He had surrendered me my violin when he -gave me the paper in his writing, and I also carried my certificate in -my hand. Of all my personal effects I took these only,--my bed and -bedding, my clothes and books having preceded me; or, at least, having -taken another form of flight. Iskar was to come also that time, but -did not intend to present himself until the evening. Aronach had also -forewarned me to take a coach, but I rather chose to walk, having -divine reminiscences upon that earthly road. - -With Starwood I had a grievous parting, not unallayed by hope on my -part, and I left him wiping his eyes,--an attention which deeply -affected me, though I did not cry myself. - -I shall never forget the singularly material aspect of things when I -arrived. Conventionalism is not so rampant in Germany as in England, -and courtesy is taught another creed. I think it would be impossible -to be anywhere more free, and yet this sudden liberty (like a sudden -light) did but at first serve to dazzle and distress me. Only half the -students had returned, and they, all knowing each other, or seeming to -do so, were standing in self-interested fraternities, broken by groups -and greeters, in one immense hall, or what appeared to me immense, and -therefore desolate. I came in through the open gates to the open -court; through the open court into the open entry and from that region -was drawn to the door of that very hall by the hollow multitudinous -echo that crept upon the stony solitude. It was as real to me a -solitude to enter that noble space; and I was more abashed than ever, -when, on looking round, I perceived none but males in all the company. -There was not even a picture of the patron saintess; but there _was_ a -picture, a dark empannelled portrait, high over the long -dining-tables. I concluded from the style that it was a representation -of one Gratianos, the Bachist, of whom I had once heard speak. - -The gentlemen in the hall were none of them full grown, and none -wonderfully handsome at first sight. But the manner of their -entertainment was truly edifying to me, who had not long been "out" in -any sense. They every one either had been smoking, were smoking, or -were about to smoke,--that is, most of them had pipes in their mouths, -or those who had them not in their mouths had just plucked them -therefrom, and were holding them in their hands, or those who had not -yet begun were preparing the apparatus. - -In a corner of the hall, which looked dismally devoid of furniture to -an English eye, there was a great exhibition of benches. There were -some upright, others kicking their feet in the air, but all packed so -as to take little space, and these were over and above the benches -that ran all round the hall. In this corner a cluster of individuals -had collected after a fashion that took my fancy in an instant, for -they had established themselves without reference to the primary use -and endowment of benches at all. Some sat on the legs thereof, -upturned, with their own feet at the reversed bottoms, and more than a -few were lying inside those reversed bottoms, with distended veins and -excited complexions, suggesting the notion that they were in the -enjoyment of plethoric slumber. To make a still further variation, one -bench was set on end and supported by the leaning figures of two -contemporaneous medalists; and on the summit of this bench, which also -rested against the wall, a third medalist was sitting, like an ape -upon the ledge of Gibraltar,--unlike an ape in this respect, that he -was talking with great solemnity, and also that he wore gloves, which -had once on a time been white. The rest were bareheaded, but all were -fitted out with mustachios, either real or fictitious, for I had my -doubts of the soft, dark tassels of the Stylites, as his own pate was -covered with hemp,--it cannot have been hair. Despite its -grotesqueness, this group, as I have said, attracted me, for there was -something in every one of the faces that set me at my ease, because -they appeared in earnest at their fun. - -I came up to them as I made out their composition, and they one and -all regarded me with calm, not malicious, indifference. They were very -boyish for young men, and very manly for young boys, certainly; and -remained, as to their respective ages, a mystery. The gentleman on the -pedestal did not even pause until he came to a proper climax,--for he -was delivering an oration,--and I arrived in time to hear the -sentence so significant: "So that all who in verity apply themselves -to science will find themselves as much at a loss without a body as -without a soul, for the animal property nourisheth and illustrateth -the spiritual, and the spiritual would be of no service without the -animal, any more than should the flame that eateth the wood burn in an -empty stove, or than the soup we have eaten for dinner should be soup -without the water that dissolved the component nutritives." - -Here he came to a full stop, and gazed upon me through sharp-shaped -orbs. Meantime I had drawn out my certificate and handed it up to him. -He took it between those streaky gloves, and having fixed a horn-set -glass into his one eye, shut up the other and perused the paper. I -don't know why I gave it to him in particular, except that he was very -high up, and had been speaking. But I had not done wrong, for he -finished by bowing to me with exceeding patronage. - -"One of us, I presume?" - -"Credentials!" groaned one who was, as I had supposed, asleep. But my -patron handed me very politely my envelope, and gravely returned to -the treatment of his theme,--whatever that might have been. Nobody -appeared to listen except his twain supporters, and they only seemed -attentive because they were thoroughly fumigated, and had their senses -under a spell. The rest began to yawn, to sneer, and to lift their -eyes, or rather the lids of them. I need scarcely say I felt very -absurd, and at last, on the utterance of an exceedingly ridiculous -peroration from the orator, I yielded at once to the impulse of -timidity, and began to laugh. The effect was of sympathetic magnetism. -Everybody whose lips were disengaged began to laugh too; and finally, -those very somnolent machines, that the benches propped, began to -stir, to open misty glances, and to grin like purgatorial saints. This -laugh grew a murmur, the murmur a roar, and finally the supporters -themselves, fairly shaking, became exhausted, staggered, and let the -pedestal glide slowly forwards. The theorist must certainly have -anticipated such a crisis, for he spread his arms and took a flying -jump from that summit, descending elegantly and conveniently as a cat -from a wall upon the boarded floor. - -"Schurke!"[1] said he to me, and held me up a threatening hand; but, -seized with a gleeful intention, I caught at it, and with one pull -dragged off his glove. The member thus exposed was evidently petted by -its head, for it was dainty and sleek, and also garnished with a -blazing ring; and he solemnly held it up to contemplate it, concluding -such performance by giving one fixed stare to each nail in particular. -Then he flew at me in a paroxysm of feigned fierceness; but I had -already flung the glove to the other end of the hall. The whole set -broke into a fresh laugh, and one said, "Thou mightest have sent it up -to the beard there, if thou hadst only thought of it." - -"Never too late, Mareschal!" cried another, as he made a stride to -fetch the glove, which, however, lay three or four strides off. He -gathered it up at last, crumpled it in his hand, and threw it high -against the wall. It just missed the picture though, and fell at the -feet of two perambulators arm-in-arm, one of whom stood upon the glove -till the other pushed him off, and gave the forlorn kidling a -tremendous kick that sent it farther than ever from the extempore -target. There was now a gathering and rush of a dozen towards it. -They tore it one from the other again; and, once more flinging it -high,--this time successfully,--it hit that panelled portrait just -upon the nose. A shout, half revengeful, half triumphant, echoed -through the hall; but the game was not at its height. - -"Gloves out, everybody!" cried several; and from all the pockets -present, as it seemed, issued a miscellaneous supply. Very innocently, -I gave up a pair of old wool ones that I happened to have with me; and -soon, very soon, a regular systematized pelting commenced of that -reverend representation in its recess. - -I am very sure I thought it all fun at first; and as there is nothing -I like so well as fun after music, I lent myself quite freely to the -sport. About fifty pairs of gloves were knotted and crumpled, pair by -pair, into balls, and whoever scrambled fastest secured the most. As -the unsuccessful shots fell back, they were caught by uplifted hands -and banged upwards with tenfold ardor, and no one was so ardent and -risibly dignified as the worthy of the pedestal. He behaved as if some -valuable stake were upon his every throw; and further, I observed that -after the game once began, nobody, except myself, laughed. It was, at -least, for half an hour that the banging, accompanied by a tremulous -hissing, continued. I myself laughed so much that I could not throw, -but I stood to watch the others. So high was the picture placed that -very few were the missiles to reach it; and such as touched the -time-seared canvas elicited an excitement I could neither realize nor -respond to. All at once it struck me as very singular they should pelt -that particular spot on the wall, and I instantly conjectured them to -be inimical to the subject of the delineation. I was just making up my -mind to inquire, when the great door hoarsely creaked, and a voice -was heard, quite in another key from the murmurous shout, to penetrate -my ear at that distance, so that I immediately responded,--"Has Carl -Auchester arrived?" - -There was no reply, nor any suspension of the performance on hand, -except on my part. But for me I turned, gladly, yet timorously, and -joined the speaker in a moment. He greeted me with what appeared to me -an overawing polish, though, in fact, it was but the result of -temperament not easily aroused. He was very slim and fair, and though -not tall, gave me the impression of one very much more my senior than -he really was. He held his arm as a kind of barrier between me and the -door until I was safely out of the hall; then said to me, in a tone of -chill but still remonstrance,-- - -"Why did you go in there? That was not a good beginning." - -"Sir," I replied, not stammered, for I felt my cause was good, "how -was I to know I ought not to go in there? It seemed quite the proper -place, with all those Cecilians about; and, besides, no one told me -where else to go. But if I did wrong, I won't go in there again, and I -certainly have not been harmed yet." - -"You must go there at times; it is there you will have to eat. But a -few who are really students hold aloof from the rest, who idle -whenever they are not strictly employed, as you have had reason to -notice. I was induced to come and look for you, of whom I should -otherwise have no knowledge, in obedience to the Chevalier Seraphael's -request that I should do so." - -"Did he really remember me in that manner? How good, how angelic!" I -cried. And yet I did not quite find my new companion charming; his -irresistible quiescence piqued me too much, though he was anything -but haughty. - -"Yes, he is good, and was certainly very good to bear in mind one so -young as you are; I hope you will reward his kindness. He gives us -great hopes of you." - -"Are you a professor, sir?" I asked, half afraid of my own impulse. - -"I am _your_ professor," he announced, with that same distance. "I am -first violin." - -I did not know whether I was pleased or sorry at that instant, for I -could detect no magnetic power that he possessed, and rather shrank -from contact with him at present. He led me up many stairs,--a side -staircase, quite new, built steeper and narrower than the principal -flight. He led me along thwart passages, and I beheld many doors and -windows too; for light and air both reigned in these regions, which -were fresh, and smelled of health. He led me into a chamber so -lengthened that it was almost a gallery, for it was very high besides. -Here he paused to exhibit a suite of prophets' chambers, one after the -other completely to the end; for in every division was a little bed, a -bench, and washing-table, with a closet closed by hasps of wood. The -uniform arrangement struck me as monotonous, but academical. My guide, -for the first time, smiled, but very slightly, and explained,-- - -"This is my division,--_les petits violons_, you know, Auchester; you -may see the numbers on every alcove. And here you practise, except -when met in class or at lecture. Your number is 13, and you are very -nearly in the middle. See, you have a curtain to draw before your bed, -and in this closet there is a box for books, as well as a niche for -your instrument, and abundant room for clothes, unless you bring more -than you can possibly want. The portmanteau and chest, which were -brought this morning, you may keep here, if you please, as well." - -I did not thank him, for I was pre-occupied with an infernal -suggestion to my brain, which I revealed in my utter terror. - -"Oh, sir, do we all practise together, then? What a horrible noise! -and how impossible to do anything so! I can't, I know!" - -Another half-smile curled the slender brown moustache. - -"It was indeed so in the times I can still remember. But see how much -more than you can own you are indebted to this Chevalier Seraphael!" - -He walked to the wall opposite the alcove, and laying hold of a brass -ring I had not noticed, drew out a long slide of wood, very thick and -strong, which shut one in from side to side. - -"There is such a one to every bed," continued he; "and if you draw -them on either hand, you will hear nothing, at least nothing to -disturb you. Come away now; I have not much time to spare, and must -leave you elsewhere." - -He led me from the chambers, and down the stairs again, and here and -there, so that I heard an organ playing in one region, and voices that -blended again to another idea; and then all was stillness, except the -rustle of his gown. But before I could make up my mind to approve or -criticise the arrangements which struck me on every hand, I found -myself in another room,--this vaulted, and inspiring as nothing I had -met with in that place. How exquisite was the radiant gloom that here -pervaded within, as within a temple; for the sunshine pierced through -little windows of brown and amber, and came down in wavering dusky -brightness on parchment hues and vellum, morocco, and ruddy gold. Here -a thick matting returned no footfall; and although the space was -small, and very crowded too, yet it had an air of vastness, from the -elevated concave of the roof. Benches were before each bookcase, that -presented its treasury of dread tomes and gigantic scores; also -reading-desks; and besides such furniture, there were the quaintest -little stalls between each set of shelves,--shrine-like niches one -could just sit in, or even at pleasure lie along; for seats were in -them of darkest polished wood. Some were already occupied, and their -occupants were profoundly quiet,--perhaps studying, perhaps asleep. - -"Here," observed my guide, "you are only allowed to come and remain in -silence. If one word be spoken in the library, expulsion of the -speaker follows. The book-keeper sits out there," pointing to an -erection like a watch-box, "and hears, and is to observe all. You may -use any book in this place, but never carry it away; and if required -for quotation as well as for reference, you may here make your -extracts, but never elsewhere. There are ink-bottles in every desk. -And if you take my advice, you will remain here until the supper-bell; -for while here, you will at least be out of mischief. We are not -to-day in full routine; but that makes it the more dangerous to be at -large." - -"Will you set me some task, then, sir? I do want something to be at." - -He seemed only to sneer at such a desire. "Nonsense! there is enough -for to-day in mastering all those names;" and he took down a catalogue -and handed it to me. - -I ran into one of those dear, dark recesses, and there he left me. - -When he had gone, I did not open my book for a time. I was in a highly -wrought mood, which was induced by that sombre-tinted, struggling -sunshine, whose beams played high in the ceiling, like fireflies in a -cedar shade, so fretted and so far. It was delicious as a dream to be -safe and solitary in that dim palace of futurity, whose vistas -stretched before me into everlasting lengths of light. I read not for -a long, long hour; and when I did open my book (itself no mean volume -as to size), I was bewildered and bedimmed by a swarm of names, both -of works and authors, I had never heard of,--Huygens, Martini, Euler, -Pfeiffer, and Marpurg alone meeting me as distant acquaintances, and -Cherubini as a dear old friend. - -This was, in fact, a _catalogue raisonné_, and I was not in a very -rational mood. I therefore shut the book, and began to pace the -library. It is extraordinary how intense is the power of application -in the case of those who are apprenticed to a master they can worship -as well as serve. I thought so then. Nothing could divert the -attention of those supine students in the recesses, nor of the scribes -at the desks. I went quite close to many of them, and could have -looked into their eyes, but that they were, for the most part, closed; -and I should have accused them of being asleep but that their lips -were moving, and I knew they were learning by heart. Great -black-letter was the characteristic of one huge volume I stayed to -examine as it lay upon a desk, and he who sat before it had a face -sweeter than any present, sensible as interesting; and I did not fear -him, though his eyes were wide open and alert. He was making copious -extracts, and as I peeped between the pages he held by his thumb and -a slight forefinger, he observed me and gave me a smile, at the same -time turning back the title-page for my inspection. That was encircled -by a wreath of cherubs' faces for flowers, and musical instruments for -leaves, old and droll as the title, "Caspar Bartholin, his Treatise on -the Wind Music of the Ancients." - -I smiled then, and nodded, to express my thanks; but a moment -afterwards he wrote for me, on a sheet in his blotting-case, which he -carried with him,-- - -"We may write, though we may not speak. Are you just arrived?" - -He handed me the pen to answer, and I wrote: "Only an hour or two ago; -and I got into a scrape directly. I am Carl Auchester, from England; -but I am not English. What is your name?" - -He smiled warmly as he read, and thus our correspondence proceeded: -"Franz Delemann. What was your scrape? I wonder you had one, now I -know your name." - -"Why?" I replied. "There is no reason why I should keep clear any more -than another; but I went into the great hall, where so many of them -were about, and they made a great noise, for they were pelting the -picture that is on the wall; and while I was helping them, just for -fun, the gentleman who brought me in here fetched me out, and said it -was a bad beginning." - -"That was his way of putting it," resumed my new associate. "He is -very matter-of-fact, that Anastase, but I know what he meant. We are a -very small party, and the rest persecute us. They would have been glad -to get you over to their side, because it would have been such a -triumph for them,--coming first, as you did come." - -Oh! how I did scribble in response. "I have not an idea what you mean. -Pray tell me quickly." - -"The Chevalier Seraphael took the place here of somebody very unlike -him. I thought the Cerinthias had told you." - -"The what?" - -"The Fräulein who came in with you the day of the concert, who came to -the pavilion with Seraphael and yourself, was one of the Cerinthias. I -thought, of course, you knew all; for her words are better than any -one's, and you had been together,--so she told me afterwards." - -"Is she Cerinthia? What a queer name!" - -"They are a queer set, though I don't suppose there ever was such a -set. The brother and the two sisters appear to possess every natural -gift among them. The father was a great singer and celebrated master, -but not a German. He came here to secure their education in a certain -style, and just as he got here, he died. Then the brother, though they -had not a penny among them all, made way by his extraordinary talent; -and as he could play on any instrument, he was admitted to the second -place in the band, and his sister was taken upon the foundation. -Milans-André made a great deal of their being here, though it was -perfectly natural, _I_ think. The youngest had been put out to nurse, -and kept in some province of France until old enough to be admitted -also; but then something happened which changed that notion. For when -Seraphael took the place of Milans-André, he had every arrangement -investigated, that he might improve to the utmost; and it was -discovered--after this fashion--that this Maria Cerinthia had been -allowed to occupy a room which was inferior to all the others. I think -the rain came in, but I am not sure of that,--I only know it was out -of the way and wretched. Seraphael was exceedingly vexed, almost in a -passion, but turned it into amusement, as he does so often before -others when he is serious at heart. He had the room turned into what -it was just fit for,--a closet for fagots. - -"Then this proud Cerinthia--the brother, I mean, whose name, by the -way, is Joseph--took offence himself; and declaring no arrangement -should be altered on account of his sister, took her away, and had a -lodging in the village instead. She comes here every day at the same -time, and is what we call an out-Cecilian,--never staying to meals or -to sleep, that is. Seraphael took no notice; and I was rather -surprised to discover that he has been to see them several -times,--because, you see, I thought _he_ was proud in his way to have -his generosity rejected." - -"Does he like them so very much, then?" - -"He ought." - -Now, I wanted to be very angry at the intimation, but my informant had -too expressive a face; so I merely added, "They are then very -wonderful?" - -"They are all wonderful, and the little one, who is not quite eight -years old (for she has come to live with them since they lived alone), -is a prodigy, but not beautiful, like the one you saw." - -"_She_ is, I suppose, the cleverest in all the house?" - -"She must be so; but is so very quiet one does not hear about her, -except at the close of the semester, when she carries off the -medals,--for everything of the best belongs to her. She is a vocalist, -and studies, of course, in the other wing; we never meet the ladies, -you know, except in public." - -"Oh! of course not. Now, do tell me what you mean about the two -parties." - -"I mean that when Milans-André went away no one knew how much mischief -he had done. His whole system was against Bach, and this is properly a -school for Bach. He could not eradicate the foundation, and he could -not confess his dislike against our master in so many words. The only -thing was to introduce quite a new style, or I am sure it might be -called 'school,' for he has written such an immense deal. It was an -opera of his, performed in this town, that at once did for him as far -as those were concerned whom he had deceived, and that determined us -not to submit ourselves any longer. He was becoming so unpopular that -he was too happy to resign. Still, he left a number for himself behind -him greater than those who had risen against him." - -"Tell me about that opera, pray. You write interesting letters, sir." - -"I have interesting matter, truly. The opera was called 'Emancipation; -or, the Modern Orpheus.' The overture took in almost all of us, it was -so well put together; but I fancy you would not have approved of it, -somehow. The theatre here is very small, and was quite filled by our -own selves and a few artists,--not one amateur, for it was produced in -rehearsal. The scenery was very good, the story rambling and fiendish; -but we thought it fairy-like. There was a perfect hit in the hero, who -was a monstrous fiddle-player, to represent whom he had Paganini, as -he had not to speak a word. The heroines, who were three in number, -were a sort of musical nuns, young ladies dedicated to the art; but -they, first one, then another, fell in with the fiddler, and finding -him, became enamoured of him. He condescends to listen to the first -while she sings, or rather he comes upon her as she is singing the -coolest of all Bach's solos in the coolest possible style. He waits -till the end with commendable patience, and then, amidst infernal -gesticulations, places before her a cantata of his own, which is -something tremendous when accompanied by the orchestra. The contrasted -style, with the artful florid instrumentation, produces rapture, and -is really an _effect_, though I do not say of what kind. The next -heroine he treats to a grand scena, in which the violin is absolutely -made to speak; and as it was carried through by Paganini, you may -conjecture it was rather bewitching. The last lady he bears off -fairly, and they converse in an outlandish duet between the voice of -the lady and the violin. I can give you no outline of the plan, for -there is no plot that I could find afterwards, but merely the heads of -each part. Next comes a tumble-down church, dusty, dark, repelling to -the idea from the beginning; and you are aware of the Lutheran service -which is being droned through as we are not very likely to hear it, in -fact. By magic the scene dissolves; colored lights break from tapering -windows; arches rise and glitter like rainbows; altar-candles blaze -and tremble; crimson velvet and rustling satin fill the Gothic stalls -on either side; and while you are trying to gather in the picture, the -Stabat Mater bursts out in strains about as much like weeping as all -the mummery is like music. - -"The last scene of all is a kind of temple where priests and -priestesses glide in spangled draperies, while the hierarch is hidden -behind a curtain. Busts and statues, that I suppose are intended for -certain masters, but whom it is not very easy to identify, as they are -ill fashioned and ill grouped, are placed in surrounding shrines. At -strains for signs from that curtained chief, the old heads and figures -are prostrated from the pedestals, the ruins are swept aside by some -utilitarian angel, and the finale consists in a great rush of -individuals masked, who crown the newly inaugurated statue of the -elevated Orpheus, and then dance around him to the ballet music, which -is accompanied by the chorus also, who sing his praise. - -"It was very exciting while it went on,--as exciting to see as it is -absurd to remember; and there was nothing for it but applause upon the -spot. When the curtain fell, and we were crushing and pressing to get -out, having been hardly able to wake ourselves up, and yet feeling the -want that succeeds enjoyment or excitement that goes no further,--you -know how,--one chord sounded behind the curtain from one instrument -within the orchestra. It arrested us most curiously; it was mystical, -as we call it, though so simple: enough to say that under those -circumstances it seemed a sound from another sphere. It continued and -spread,--it was the People's Song you heard the day you first came to -us. It was once played through without vocal illustration, but we all -knew the words, and began to sing them. - -"We were singing still in a strange sort of roar I can't describe to -you, when the music failed, and the curtain was raised on one side. -He--Seraphael, whom we knew not then--stood before us for the first -time. You know how small he is: as he stood there he looked like a -child of royal blood, his head quite turned me, it was so beautiful; -and we all stood with open mouths to see him, hoping to hear him -speak. He spread out those peculiar hands of his, and said, in his -sweet, clear voice: 'That song, oh ladies and gentlemen, which you -have shown you love so well, is very old, and you do not seem to be -aware that it is so, nor of its author. Who wrote it, made it for us, -think you?' - -"His beauty and his soft, commanding voice had just the effect you -will imagine,--everybody obeyed him. One and another exclaimed, -'Hasse!' 'Vogler!' 'Hegel!' 'Storace!' 'Weber!' But it was clear the -point had not been contested. Then he folded his arms together and -laid them on his breast, with a very low bow that brought all the hair -into his eyes. Then he shook back the curls and laughed. - -"'It is _Bach_, my dear and revered Sebastian Bach,--of all the Bachs -alone _the_ Bach; though indeed to any one Bach, one of us present is -not fit to hold a candle. You do not love Bach,--I do. You do not -reverence him,--he is in my religion. You do not understand him,--I am -very intimate with him. If you knew him, you too would love and -worship and desire of him to know more and more. Ladies and gentlemen, -you are all just. He has no one to take his part, as has your -nondescript modern Orpheus. I shall give a lecture on Bach in this -theatre to-morrow evening. Everybody comes in free. Only come!' - -"Who could refuse him? Who could have refused him as he stood there, -and flying behind the curtain, peeped again between the folds of it -and bowed? Besides, there was a strong curiosity at work,--a curiosity -of which many were ashamed. Do I tire you?" - -"More likely yourself. Do finish about the lecture." - -"The supper-bell will be soon ringing, and will shake the story out of -me, so I must make haste. I can tell it you properly some time. The -next evening there was such a crowd at the door that they kicked it -in, and stood listening outside. The curtain was done away with, and -we never could make out how that organ came there which towered -behind; but there it stood, and a pianoforte in front. The Chevalier -appeared dressed in black, with nothing in his arms but a heap of -programmes, written in his own hand, which he distributed himself, for -he had no assistant. You know that Forkel has written a life of Bach? -Well, I have since read this, and have been puzzled to find how such a -poem as we listened to could have sprung from the prose of those dry -memoirs. The voice was enough, if it had not said what it did say,--so -delicious a voice to hear that no one stirred for fear of losing it. - -"I cannot give you the slightest outline; but I have never read any -romance so brilliant, nor any philosophy that I could so take into -myself. The illustrations were fugue upon fugue. Oh, to hear that -organ with its grand interpretations, and the silver voice between! -and study upon study for the harpsichord that from the new pianoforte -seemed to breathe its old excitement--chorale upon chorale--until, -with that song restored to its own proper form, it ended,--I mean, the -lecture. I cannot say, though, about the ending, for I was obliged to -leave before it was over; the clear intellect was too much for me, and -the genius knocked me down. Many others left upon my very heels; but -those who stayed seemed hardly to recall a word that had been said. -All were so impressed, for that night, at least, that I can remember -nothing to compare with it, except the descriptions in your English -divinity books of the revivals in religion of your country. The next -day, however, the scoffers found their tongues again, and only we to -whom the whole affair had appeared on the occasion itself a dream, -awoke to a reality that has never left us. We have not been the same -since, and that is one reason we were so anxious you should be one -with the students of Bach even before you knew what you must -profess." - -"Oh! I come from a good school, for Aronach is full of Bach. But do -tell me about the others." - -"The Andréites, as they call themselves, are not precisely inimical to -Seraphael,--that would be impossible, he is so companionable, so free -and truly great; but they, one and all, slight Bach, and as some of -them are professors, and we all study under the professor of our voice -or instrument in particular, it is a pity for the fresh comers to fall -into the wrong set." - -"But I am safe, at least, for I am certain that Anastase is of the -right school." - -"The very best; he is a Seraphaelite. They call us Seraphaelites, and -we like it; but Seraphael does not like it, so we only use the word -now for parole,--Bruderschaft."[2] - -"Why, I wonder, does he not like it?" - -"Because he is too well bred." - -Oh, how I enjoyed that expression! It reminded me of Lenhart Davy and -his sayings. I was just going to intrude another question when my -intention was snapped by the ringing of the bell, which made a most -imposing noise. The sound caused a sudden rush and rustle through the -library; gowned and ungowned figures forsook the nooks and benches, -and they each and all put by their books as deftly, dexterously as -Millicent used to lay her thimble into her work-box when she was a wee -maiden. They did not stare at me at all, which was very satisfactory; -and I found occasion to admire all their faces. I told my companion -so, and he laughed, rubbing his eyes and stretching; then he put his -arm about my neck in strict fraternal fashion, which gratified me -exceedingly, and not the less because he was evidently by several -years my elder. We left the library together, and right rejoiced was -I to hear myself speak again; the first thing that occurred to me to -say, I said: "Oh! I wanted so much to know what is your instrument." - -"I don't think I shall tell you," he replied, in a guileless voice, -interesting as his behavior and language. - -"Why not? I must know it at last, must I not?" - -"Perhaps you will not think so well of me, when you know what I exist -for." - -"That would make no difference, for every instrument is as great with -reference to others as some are in themselves." - -"Seraphael could not have put it better. I play the trombone. It is a -great sacrifice at present." - -"But," I returned, "I have not heard the instrument,--is it not a -splendid sort of trumpet? You mean it is not good for solos?" - -"It is quite to itself,--a mere abstraction considered by itself; but -to the orchestra what red is to the rainbow." - -"I know who said that. He puts brass last, I see." - -"Oh, you are a thief! You know everything already. Yes, he does put -the violet first." - -"The violin? Yes, so he called it to me; but I did not know he was -fond of calling it so." - -"It is one of his theories. It was, however, one day after he had been -expounding it to a few of us who were fortunate enough to be present, -when he was glancing through the class-rooms, that he put up his -hands, and in his bright way, you know, scattering your reasoning -faculties like a burst of sunshine, said, 'Oh, you must not entertain -a word I have said to you,--it is only to be dreamed.'" - -"What did he say? What had he said? Do, pray, out with it, or I cannot -eat, I am sure." - -We were just outside the hall doorway now; within were light and a -hundred voices mingled. Into the dusk he gave his own, and I took it -safely home in silence. - -"His theory,--oh, it was in this way! Strings first, of course, -violet, indigo, blue,--violin, violoncello, double-bass,--upon these -you repose; the vault is quite perfect. Green, the many-sounded kinds -of wood, spring-hued flutes, deeper, yet softer, clarinetti, bassoons -the darkest tone, not to be surpassed in its shade,--another vault. -The brass, of course, is yellow; and if the horns suggest the paler -dazzle, the trumpets take the golden orange, and the red is left for -the trombones,--vivid, or dun and dusk."[3] - -"Oh, my goodness! I don't wonder he said it was a dream!" - -"It certainly would be dangerous to think of it in any other light!" - -"And you a German!" I cried. "Did you think I meant it?" - -"You would mean it," he retorted, "if you knew what lip-distorting -and ear-distracting work it is practising this same trombone." - -"But what is your reason, then, for choosing it, when you might choose -_mine_?" - -"Do you not know that Seraphael has written as no one else for the -trombone? And he was heard to sigh, and to say, 'I shall never find -any one to play these passages!'" - -"Oh, Delemann! and that was the reason you took it up? How I love you -for it!" - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] Wretch. - -[2] Brotherhood. - -[3] The theory of the correspondence of tones and colors is an old -one. Gardner, in his "Music of Nature," traces it in the following -manner, which will be interesting as contrasted with the above:-- - -WIND INSTRUMENTS. - - Trombone--deep red. - Trumpet--scarlet. - Clarinet--orange. - Oboe--yellow. - Bassoon--deep yellow. - Flute--sky blue. - Diapason--deeper blue. - Double diapason--purple. - Horn--violet. - -STRINGED INSTRUMENTS. - - Violin--pink. - Viola--rose. - Violoncello--red. - Double-bass--crimson. - -Laura Bridgman, the blind and deaf mute, it will be remembered, -likened the tone of the trumpet to scarlet. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -All lives have their prose translation as well as their ideal meaning; -how seldom _this_ escapes in language worthy, while _that_ tells best -in words. I was a good deal exhausted for several days after I entered -the school, and saw very little except my own stuntedness and -deficiency in the mirror of contemplation. For Anastase took me to -himself awfully the first morning, all alone; examined me, tortured -me, made me blush and hesitate and groan; bade me be humble and -industrious; told me I was not so forward as I might be; drenched me -with medicinal advices that lowered my mental system; and, finally, -left me in possession of a minikin edition of what I had conceived -myself the day before, but which he deprived me of at present, if not -annihilated forever. - -It was doubtless a very good thing to go back to the beginning, if he -intended to re-create me; but it happened that such transmutation -could not take place twice, and it had already occurred once. Still, I -was absolved from obvious discomfiture to the regenerator by my silent -adaptations to his behavior. - -That which would assuredly become a penance to the physique in dark or -wintry weather, remained still a charming matutinal romance; namely, -that we all rose at four o'clock, except any one who might be -delicate, and that we practised a couple of hours before we got -anything to eat,--I mean formally, for, in fact, we almost all -smuggled into our compartments wherewithal to keep off the natural, -which might not amalgamate with the spiritual, constraining appetite. -Those early mornings were ineffaceably effective for me; I advanced -more according to my desires than I had ever advanced before, and I -laid up a significant store of cool, sequestered memories. I could, -however, scarcely realize my own existence under these circumstances, -until the questioner within me was subdued to "contemplation" by my -first "adventure." - -I had been a week in durance, if not vile, very void, for I had seen -nothing of the Cerinthias nor of their interesting young advocate, -except at table,--though certainly on these latter occasions we -surfeited ourselves with talk that whetted my curiosity to a double -edge. On the first Sunday, however, I laid hold of him coming out of -church, when we had fulfilled our darling duties in the choir,--for -the choir of our little perfect temple, oak-shaded and sunlit, was -composed entirely of Cecilians, and I have not time in this place to -dilate upon its force and fulness. Delemann responded joyously to my -welcome; and when I asked him what was to be our task on Sunday, he -answered that the rest of the day was our own, and that if I pleased -we would go together and call upon that Maria and her little sister, -of whom I knew all that could be gained out of personal intercourse. - -"Just what I wished," said I; "how exactly you guessed it!" - -"Oh, but I wanted to go myself!" answered Franz, laughing, "for I have -an errand thither;" and together we quitted the church garden, with -its sheltering lime shadow, for the sultry pavement. - -It cannot have been five minutes that we walked, before we came in -front of one of those narrowest and tallest of the droll abodes I was -pretty well used to now, since I had lived with Aronach. We went -upstairs, too, in like style to that of the old apprentice home, and -even as there, did not rest until nearly at the top. Delemann knocked -at a door, and, as if perfectly accustomed to do so, walked in without -delay. The room we entered was slightly furnished, but singularly in -keeping with each other were the few ornaments, unsurpassably -effective. Also a light clearness threw up and out each decoration -from the delicate hue of the walls and the mild fresco of their -borders, unlike anything I had yet seen, and startling, in spite of -the simplicity of the actual accommodations, from their excelling -taste. Upon brackets stood busts, three or four, and a single vase of -such form that it could only have been purchased in Italy. At the -window were a couch and reading-desk, also a table ready prepared with -some kind of noonday meal; and at the opposite end of the apartment -rose from the polished floor the stove itself, entirely concealed -under lime-branches and oak-leaves. The room, too, was not untenanted, -for upon the couch, though making no use whatever of the desk, lay a -gentleman, who was reading, nevertheless, a French newspaper. He was -very fine,--grand-looking, I thought; his dress appeared courtly, so -courtly was his greeting. "You have not come for me, I know," he -observed to Delemann, having seated us; "but the girls, having dined, -are gone to rest: we don't find it easy to dispense with our siesta. -You will surely eat first, for you must be hungry, and I am but just -come in." He was, in fact, waiting for the soup, which swiftly -followed us; and so we sat down together. Franz then produced a little -basket, which I had noticed him to carry very carefully as we came -along; but he did not open it, he placed it by his side upon the -table. It was covered, and the cover was tied down with green ribbon. -I was instantly smitten curious; but a great stay to my curiosity was -the deportment of our host. I had seen a good many musicians by this -time, and found them every one the alone civilized and polished of the -human race; but there were evidences of supremacy in a few that I -detected not even in the superior many. Some had enthralled me more -than this young Cerinthia for I now know he was young, though at that -time he appeared extremely my elder, and I could have believed him -even aged; but there was about him an unassuming nobility that bespoke -the highest of all educations,--that according to the preparations and -purposes of nature. He seemed to live rationally, and I believe he -did, though he was not to the immediate perception large-hearted. He -ate, himself, with the frugality of Ausonia, but pressed us with -cordial attention; and for me, I enjoyed my dinner immensely, though I -had not come there to eat. Franz did not talk to him about his -sisters, as I should have perhaps wished, and I dared not mention -them, for there was that in Cerinthia's hazy, lustrous eyes that made -me afraid to be as audacious as my disposition permitted. Presently, -while we were drinking to each other, I heard little steps in the -passage; and as I expected an apparition, I was not surprised when -there entered upon those light feet a little girl, who, the first -moment reminded me of Laura, but not the next, for her face was unlike -as my own. She was very young, indeed, but had a countenance unusually -formed, though the head was infantine,--like enough to our entertainer -to belong to him, like as to delicacy of extremities and emerald -darkness of eye. She wore a short white frock and two beautiful plaits -of thick bright hair kept and dressed like that of a princess. She -took no notice of me, but courtesyed to Delemann with an alien air -most strange to me, and then ran past him to her brother, whom she -freely caressed, at the same time, as it were, to hide her face. "Look -up! my shy Josephine," said he, "and make another courtesy to that -young gentleman, who is a great friend and connoisseur of the -Chevalier Seraphael." Josephine looked back at me from beneath her -heavy eyelashes, but still did not approach. Then I said, "How is your -sister, Miss Josephine? I am only a little friend of the -Chevalier,--she is the great one." - -"I know," replied she, in a sage child's voice, then looking up at her -brother, "Maria is tired, and will not come in here, Joseph." - -"She is lying down, then?" - -"No, she is brushing her hair." We all laughed at this. - -"But run to tell her that Franz Delemann is here, and Carl Auchester -with him; or if you cannot remember this name, Delemann's alone will -do." - -"But she knows, for we heard them come in, and she said she should -stay in her room; but that if Mr. Delemann had a letter for her I -might carry it there." - -"I don't know whether there is a letter in here, Josephine, but this -basket came for her." - -"How pretty!" said Josephine; and she stretched her tiny hand, a smile -just shining over her face that reminded me of her beautiful sister. I -saw she was anxious to possess herself of it, but I could not resist -my own desire to be the bearer. - -"Let me take it to her!" I exclaimed impulsively. Cerinthia looked up, -and Franz, too, surprised enough; but I did not care, I rose. "She can -send me back again, if she is angry," I pleaded; and Cerinthia fairly -laughed. - -"Oh, you may go! She will not send you back, though I should certainly -be sent back if _I_ took such a liberty." - -"Neither would she admit me," said Delemann. - -"Why, you came last Sunday," put in little Josephine and then she -looked at me, with one little finger to her lip. - -"Come too!" - -So we went, she springing before me to a door which she left ajar as -she entered, while I discreetly remained outside. - -"May he come, Maria?" I heard her say; and then I heard that other -voice. - -"Who, dear little Josephine,--which of them?" - -"The little boy." - -"The little boy!" she gave a kind of bright cry, and herself came to -the door. She opened it, and standing yet there, said, with the -loveliest manner, "You will not quarrel with this little thing! But -forgive her, and pray come in. It was kind to come all the way up -those stairs, which are steep as the road to fame." - -"Is that steep?" I asked, for her style instantly excited me to a -rallying mood. - -"Some say so," she replied,--"those who seek it. But come and rest." -And she led me by her flower-soft finger-tips to a sofa, also in the -light, as in the room I had quitted, and bathed in airs that floated -above the gardens, and downwards from the heavens into that window -also open. A curtain was drawn across the alcove at the end, and -between us and its folds of green, standing out most gracefully, was a -beautiful harp; there were also more books than I had seen in a -sitting-room since I left my Davy, and I concluded they had been -retrieved from her lost father's library. But upon the whole room -there was an atmosphere thrown neither from the gleaming harp nor -illustrating volumes; and as my eyes rested upon her, after roving -everywhere else, I could only wonder I had ever looked away. Her very -dress was such as would have become no other, and was that which she -herself invested with its charm. She wore a dark-blue muslin, darker -than the summer heaven, but of the self-same hue; this robe was worn -loosely, was laced in front over a white bodice. Upon those folds was -flung a shawl of some dense rose-color and an oriental texture, and -again over that shady brilliance fell the long hair, velvet-soft, and -darker than the pine-trees in the twilight. The same unearthly hue -slept in the azure-emerald of her divinely moulded eyes, mild and -liquid as orbed stars, and just as superhuman. The hair, thus -loosened, swept over her shoulder into her lap. There was not upon its -stream the merest ripple,--it was straight as long; and had it not -been so fine, must have wearied with its weight a head so small as -hers. - -"What magnificent hair you have!" said I. - -"It seems I was determined to make of it a spectacle. If I had known -you were coming, I should have put it out of the way; but whenever I -am lazy or tired, I like to play with it. The Chevalier calls it my -rosary." - -I was at home directly. - -"The Chevalier! Oh! have you seen him since that day?" - -"Four, five, six times." - -"And I have not seen him once." - -"You shall see him eight, nine, ten times. Never mind! He comes to see -me, you know, out of that kindness whose prettiest name is charity." - -"Where is he now?" I inquired, impatient of that remark of hers. - -"Now? I do not know. He has been away a fortnight, conducting -everywhere. Have you not heard?" - -"No,--what?" - -"Of the Mer de Glace overture and accompaniments?" - -"I have not heard a word." - -She took hold of her hair and stroked it impatiently; still, there was -such sweetness in her accent as made me doubt she was angry. - -"I told Florimond to tell you. He always forgets those things!" - -I looked up inquiringly; there was that in her eye which might be the -light of an unfallen tear. - -"But I don't know who you mean." - -"I am glad not. How silly I am! Oh, _madre mia_! this hot weather -softens the brain, I do believe,--I should never have done it in the -winter. And all this time I have been wondering what is that basket -upon which Josephine seems to have set her whole soul." - -"It is for you," said Josephine. - -"Oh," I exclaimed, "how careless I am! Yes, but I do not know who it -comes from. Franz brought it." - -"Young Delemann? Oh, thank him, please! I know very well. Here, then, -_piccola, carina_! you shall have to open it. Where are the ivory -scissors?" - -"Oh, how exquisite!" I cried; for I knew she meant those tiny fingers. - -"Exquisite, is it? It is again from the Chevalier." - -"Did he say so? I thought it like him; but you are so like him." - -"I well, I believe you are right,--there is a kind of likeness." - -She raised her eyes, so full of lustre, that I even longed for the -lids to fall. The brilliant smile, like the most ardent sunlight, had -spread over her whole face. I forgot her strange words in her -unimaginable expression, until she spoke again. All this while the -little one was untwisting the green bands which were passed over and -under the basket. At length the cover was lifted: there were seven or -eight immense peaches. I had thought there must be fruit within, from -the exhaling scent, but still I was surprised. There was no letter. -This disappointed me; but there were fresh leaves at the very bottom. -My chief companion took out these, and laid each peach upon a leaf: -her fingers shone against the downy blush. She presented me with one -after another. "Pray eat them, or as many as you can; I do not eat -fruit to-day, for it is too hot weather, and _she_ must not eat so -many." I instantly began to eat, and made efforts to do even more than -I ought. Josephine carried off her share on a doll's plate. Then her -sister rose and took in a birdcage from outside the window, where it -had hung, but I had not seen it. There was within it a small bird, and -dull enough it looked until she opened the door, when it fluttered to -the bars, hopped out, stood upon a peach, and then, espying me, flew -straight into her bosom. It lay there hidden for some minutes, and she -covered and quite concealed it with her lovely little hand. I said,-- - -"Is it afraid of me? Shall I go?" - -"Oh dear no!" she replied; "it does like you, and is only shy. Do you -never wish to be hidden when you see those you like?" - -"I never have yet, but I daresay I shall, now I come to think about -it." - -"You certainly will. This silly little creature is not yet quite sure -of us; that is it." - -"Where did it come from?" - -"It came from under the rye-stacks. He--that is always the Chevalier, -you know--was walking through the rye-fields when the moon was up; the -reapers had all gone home. He heard a small cry withering under the -wheat, and stayed to listen. Most men would not have heard such a weak -cry; no man would have stayed to listen, except one, perhaps, besides. -He put aside all the loose ears, and he found under them--for it could -not move--this wretched lark, with its foot broken,--broken by the -sickle." - -There was no quiver of voice or lip as she spoke. I mention this -merely because I am not fond of the mere sentiment almost all women -infuse into the sufferings of inferior creatures, while those with -loftier claims and pains are overlooked. She went on,-- - -"How do you think he took it up? He spread his handkerchief over the -stubble, and shelled a grain or two, which he placed within reach of -the lark upon the white table-cloth. The lark tried very hard, and -hopped with its best foot to reach the grains, then he drew the four -corners together, and brought it here to me. I thought it would die, -but it has not died; and now it knows me, and has no mind to go away." - -"Does it know him?" - -"Not only so, but for him alone will it sing. I let it fly one day -when its foot was well; but the next morning I found it outside the -window pecking at its cage-wires, and it said, 'Take me back again, if -you please.'" - -"That is like the Chevalier too. But you _are_ like him; I suppose it -is being so much with him." - -"And yet I never saw him till the first day I saw you, and you had -seen him long before. I think it must be dead, it is so still." - -Hereupon she uncovered the lark's head; it peeped up, and slowly, with -sly scrutiny, hopped back to the peach and began to feed, driving in -its little bill. I wanted to know something now, and my curiosity in -those days had not so much as received a wholesome check, much less a -quietus; and therefore presumptuously demanded,-- - -"Who was the somebody, Fräulein Cerinthia, that might stop to listen -to a bird's cry besides the Chevalier. You stopped." - -"And that is why you wished to know. I had better have said it in the -right place. Did anybody ever tell you you are audacious? It was -Florimond Anastase." - -"My master!" and I clapped my hands. - -"Mine, sir, if you please." - -"But he teaches me the violin." - -"And he does not teach me the violin, but is yet my master." - -"How, why?" - -"I belong to him, or shall." - -"Do you mean that you are married to Anastase?" - -"Not yet, or I should not be here." - -"But you will be?" - -"Yes,--that is, if nothing should happen to prevent our being -married." - -"You like to be so, I suppose?" - -She gazed up and smiled. Her eyes grew liquid as standing dew. "I will -not say you are again audacious, because you are so very innocent. I -do wish it." - -"I said _like_, Fräulein Cerinthia." - -"You can make a distinction too. Suppose I said, No." - -"I should not believe you while you look so." - -"And if I said, Yes, I daresay you would not believe me either. Dear -little Carl,--for I must call you little, you are so much less than -I,--do you really think I would marry, loving music as I do, unless I -really loved that which I was to marry more than music?" - -So thrilling were her tones in these simple words, of such intensity -her deep glance, with its fringe all quivering now, that I was -alienated at once from her,--the child from the woman; yet could like -a child have wept too, when she bent her head and sobbed. "Could -anything be more beautiful?" I thought; and now, in pausing, my very -memory sobs, heavy laden with pathetic passion. For it was not exactly -sorrow, albeit a very woful bliss. She covered her eyes and gave way a -moment; then sweeping off the tears with one hand, she broke into a -smile. The shower ceased amidst the sunlight, but still the sunlight -served to fling a more peculiar meaning upon the rain-drops,--an iris -lustre beamed around her eyes. I can but recall that ineffable -expression, the April playing over the oriental mould. - -"I might have known you would have spoken so, Fräulein Cerinthia," I -responded, at last roused to preternatural comprehension by her words; -"but so few people think in that way about those things." - -"You are right, and agree with me, or at least you will one day. But -for that, all would be music here; we should have it all _our own -way_." - -"You and the Chevalier. Do you know I had forgotten all about your -music till this very minute?" - -"I am very happy to hear that, because it shows we are to be friends." - -"We have the best authority to be so," I replied; "and it only seems -too good to be true. I am really, though, mad to hear you sing. -Delemann says there never was in Europe a voice like yours, and that -its only fault is it is so heavenly that it makes one discontented." - -"That is one of the divinest mistakes ever made, Carlino." - -"The Chevalier calls me Carlomein. I like you to say 'Carlino,' it is -so coaxing." - -"You have served me with another of your high authorities, Maestrino. -The Chevalier says I have scarcely a voice at all; it is the way I -sing he likes." - -"I did not think it possible. And yet, now I come to consider, I don't -think you look so much like a singer as another sort of musician." - -She smiled a little, and looked into her lap, but did not reply. It -struck me that she was too intuitively modest to talk about herself. -But I could not help endeavoring to extort some comment, and I went -on. - -"I think you look too much like a composer to be a singer also." - -"Perhaps," she whispered. - -I took courage. "Don't you mean to be a composer, Fräulein Cerinthia?" - -"Carlino, yes. The Chevalier says that to act well is to compose." - -"But then," I proceeded hastily, "my sister--at least Mr. Davy--at -least--you don't know who I mean, but it does not matter,--a gentleman -who is very musical told me and my sister that the original purpose of -the drama is defeated in England, and that instead of bringing the -good out of the beautiful, it produces the artificial out of the -false,--those were his very words; he was speaking of the _music_ of -operas, though, I do remember, and perhaps I made some mistake." - -"I should think not." - -"In England it is very strange, is it not, that good people, really -good people, think the opera a dreadful place to be seen in, and the -theatres worse? My sister used to say it was so very unnatural, and it -seems so." - -"I have heard it is so in England,--and really, after all, I don't so -much wonder; and perhaps it is better for those good people you spoke -of to keep away. It is not so necessary for them to go as for us. And -this is it, as I have heard, and you will know how, when I have said -it to you. Music is the soul of the drama, for the highest drama is -the opera,--the highest possible is the soul, of course; and so the -music should be above the other forms, and they the ministers. But -most people put the music at the bottom, and think of it last in this -drama. If the music be high, all rise to it; and the higher it is, the -higher will all rise. So, the dramatic personification passes -naturally into that spiritual height, as the forms of those we love, -and their fleeting actions fraught with grace, dissolve into our -strong perception of the soul we in them love and long for. The lights -and shades of scenery cease to have any meaning in themselves, but -again are drawn upwards into the concentrated performing souls, and so -again pass upwards into the compass of that tonal paradise. But let -the music be degraded or weak, and down it will pull performers, -performance, and intention, crush the ideal, as persons without music -crush _our_ ideal,--have you not felt? All dramatic music is not thus -weak and bad, but much that they use most is vague as well as void. I -am repeating to you, Carlino, the very words of the Chevalier: do not -think they were my own." - -"I did, then, think them very like his words, but I see your thoughts -too, for you would say the same. Is there no music to which you would -act, then?" - -"Oh, yes! I would act to any music, not because I am vain, but because -I think I could help it upwards a little. Then there is a great deal -for us: we cannot quarrel over Mozart and Cimarosa, neither Gluck nor -Spohr; and there is one, but I need hardly name him, who wrote -'Fidelio.' And the Chevalier says if there needed a proof that the -highest acting is worthy of the highest music, the highest music of -the highest form or outward guise of love in its utmost loveliness, -that opera stands as such. And, further, that all the worst operas, -and ill-repute of them in the world, will not weigh against the -majesty and purity of Beethoven's own character in the opposing -scale." - -"Oh! thank you for having such a memory." - -"I have a memory in my memory for those things." - -"Yes, I know. Does the Chevalier know you are to marry Anastase?" - -"No." - -I was surprised at this, though she said it so very simply; she looked -serene as that noonday sky, and very soon she went on to say: -"Florimond, my friend, is very young, though I look up to him as no -one else could believe. I am but fifteen, you know, and have yet been -nearly three years betrothed." - -"Gracious! you were only a little girl." - -"Not much less than now. I don't think you would ever have called me a -little girl, and Florimond says I shall never be a woman. I wished to -tell the Chevalier, thinking he would be so good as to congratulate -me, and hoping for such a blessing; but I have never found myself able -to bring it out of my lips. I always felt it withdraw, as if I had no -reason, and certainly I had no right, to confide my personal affairs -to him. Our intercourse is so different." - -"Yes, I should think so. I wonder what you generally talk about." - -"Never yet of anything but music." - -"That is strange, because the Chevalier does not usually talk so,--but -of little things, common things he makes so bright; and Franz tells -me, and so did another of our boys, that he only talks of such small -affairs generally, and avoids music." - -"So I hear from my brother. He talks to Josephine about her doll. He -did tell me once that with me alone he 'communed music.'" - -"Again his words!" - -She assented by her flying smile. - -"He never plays to you, then?" - -"Never to myself; but then, you see, I should never ask him." - -"And he would not do it unless he were asked. I understand that. You -feel as I should about asking _you_." - -"Me to sing?" she inquired in a tone beguiling, lingering, an echo of -_his_ voice ever sleepless in my brain, or that if sleeping, ever -awoke to music. I nodded. - -"No," said she again, with quickness, "I will not wait to be asked." - -As she spoke she arose, and those dark streams of hair fell off her -like some shadow from her spirit; she shone upon me in rising,--so -seemed her smile. "Oh!" I cried eagerly, and I caught, by some -impulse, the hem of her garment, "you are going to be so good!" - -"If you let me be so," she replied, and drew away those folds, passing -to her harp. Her hand, suddenly thrown upon the wires, whose -resistance to embrace so sweet made all their music, caught the ear -of little Josephine, who had been playing very innocently, for a -prodigy, in the corner; and now she came slowly forwards, her doll in -her arms, and stood about a yard from the harp, again putting up one -finger to her lip, and giving me a glance across the intervening -space. She looked, as she so peered, both singular and interesting in -the blended curiosity and shyness that appertain to certain -childhoods; but it seemed to me at that moment as if she were a -strayed earthling into some picture of a scene in that unknown which -men call heaven. For the harp and the form which appeared now to have -grown to it--so inseparable are the elements of harmony, so -intuitively they blend in meeting--were not a sight to suggest -anything this side of death. All beauty is the gauge of immortality; -and as I wondered at her utter loveliness, I became calm as -immortality only permits and sanctions when on it our thoughts repose, -for it our affections languish. Her arms still rested behind and -before the strings as she tuned them; still her hair swept that cloud -upon the softness of her cheek, toned the melancholy arch of her brow: -but the deep rose-hues of her now drooping mantle, and the Italian -azure of her robe, did not retrieve the fancy to any earthly -apparition. They seemed but transparent and veil-like media through -which the whiteness of light found way in colors that sheathed an -unendurable naked lustre. I thought not in such words, but such -thoughts were indeed mine; and while I was yet gazing,--dreaming, I -should say, for I ever dream on beauty,--she played some long, low -chords, attenuated golden thwarting threads of sound, and began -forthwith to sing. She sang in German, and her song was a prayer for -rest,--a Sunday song, as little Josephine said afterwards to me. But -it might have been a lay of revenge, of war, or of woe, for all I -heard that the words conveyed, as I could not exist except in the -voice itself, or the spirit of which the voice was formed. I felt then -that it is not in voice, it is not in cunning instrument, that the -thing called music hides; it is the uncreate intelligence of tone that -genius breathes into the created elements of sound. This girl's or -angel's voice was not so sweet as intelligible, not so boundless as -intense. It went straight into the brain, it stirred the soul without -disturbing; the ear was unconscious as it entered that dim gallery, -and rushed through it to the inward sympathetic spirit. The quality of -the voice, too, as much pertained to that peculiar organization as -certain scents pertain to particular flowers. It was as in the open -air, not in the hothouse, that this foreign flower expanded, and -breathed to the sun and wind its secrets. It was what dilettanti call -a contralto voice, but such a contralto, too, that either Nature or -culture permitted the loftiest flights; the soprano touches were vivid -and vibrating as the topmost tones of my violin. While the fragrance -yet fanned my soul, the flower shut up. She ceased singing and came to -me. - -"Do you like that little song? It is the Chevalier's." - -"A Sunday song," observed Josephine, as I mentioned. - -"A Sunday song!" I cried, and started. "I have not heard a word!" - -"Oh!" she said, not regretfully, but with excitement, "you must then -hear it again; and Josephine shall sing it, that you may not think of -my voice instead of the song." - -I had not time to remonstrate, nor had I the right. The child began -quite composedly, still holding her doll. She had a wonderful voice. -But what have I to do with voices? I mean style. Josephine's voice was -crude as a green whortleberry; its sadness was sour, its strength -harsh; though a voice shrill and small as the cricket's chirp, with -scarcely more music. But she sang divinely; she sang like a cherub -before the Great White Throne. - -The manner was her sister's; the fragrance another, a peculiar -wood-like odor, as from moss and evanescent wild-flowers, if I may so -compare, as then it struck me. I listened to the words this while, to -the melody,--the rush of melodies; for in that composer's slightest -effect each part is a separate soul, the counterpoint a subtle, fiery -chain imprisoning the soul in bliss. Ineffable as was that -air,--ineffable as is every air of his,--I longed to be convinced it -had been put together by a _man_. I could not, and I cannot to this -hour, associate anything material with strains of his. When Josephine -concluded, I was about to beg for more; but the other left her harp, -and kissing her little care, brought her with herself to the couch -where she had quitted me. How strange was the sweetness, how sweet the -change in her manner now! - -"How pale you look!" said she; "I shall give you some wine. I can feel -for you, if you are delicate in health, for I am so myself; and it is -so sad sometimes." - -"No wine, please; I have had wine, and am never the better for it. I -believe I was born pale, and shall never look anything else." - -"I like you pale, if it is not that you are delicate." - -"I think I am pretty strong; I can work hard, and do." - -"Do not!" she said, putting her loveliest hand on my hair, and -turning my face to hers, "do not, _lieber_, work hard,--not too hard." - -"And why not? for I am sure you do." - -"That is the very reason I would have you not do so. I _must_ work -hard." - -"But if you are delicate, Fräulein Cerinthia?" - -"God will take care of me; I try to serve him. None have to answer for -themselves as musicians." She suddenly ceased, passed one hand over -her face. She did not stir, but I heard her sigh; she arose, and -looked from the window; she sat down again, as if undecided. - -"Can I do anything for you?" I asked. - -"No, I want nothing; I am only thinking that it is very troublesome -the person who sent those fruits could not come instead of them. I -ought to have kept it from you, child as you are." - -"Child, indeed! why, what are you yourself?" - -"Young, very young," she replied, with some passion in her voice; "but -so much older than you are in every sense. I never remember when I did -not feel I had lived a long time." - -I was struck by these words, for they often returned upon me -afterwards, and I rose to go, feeling something disturbed at having -wearied her; for she had not the same fresh bloom and unfatigued -brightness as when I entered. She did not detain me, though she said, -"Call me Maria, please; I should like it best,--we are both so young, -you know! We might have been brother and sister." And in this graceful -mood my memory carried her away. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -I need not say I looked upon Anastase with very different eyes next -time I crossed his path. He had never so much interested me; he had -never attracted me before,--he attracted me violently now, but not for -his own sake. I watched every movement and gesture,--every intimation -of his being, separable from his musical nature and dissociated from -his playing. He seemed to think me very inattentive on the Monday -morning, though, in fact, I had never been so attentive to him before; -but I did not get on very well with my work. At last he fairly stopped -me, and touched my chin with his bow. - -"What are you thinking about this morning, sir?" he inquired, in that -easy voice of his, with that cool air. - -I never told a lie in my life, white or black. "Of you, sir," I -replied. With his large eyes on mine, I felt rather scorched, but -still I kept faith with myself. "Of the Fräulein Cerinthia." - -"I thought as much. The next Sunday you will remain at home." - -"Yes, sir; but that won't prevent my thinking about you and her." - -"Exactly; you shall therefore have sufficient time to think about us. -As you have not control enough to fasten your mind on your own -affairs, we must indulge your weakness by giving it plenty of room." - -Then he pointed to my page with his bow, and we went on quietly. I -need not say we were alone. After my lesson, just before he proceeded -to the next violin, he spoke again. - -"You do not know, perhaps, what test you are about to endure. We shall -have a concert next month, and you will play a first violin with me." - -"Sir!" I gasped, "I cannot--I never will!" - -"Perhaps you will change your note when you are aware who appointed -you. It is no affair of mine." - -"If you mean, sir, that it is the Chevalier who appointed me, I don't -believe it, unless you gave your sanction." - -He turned upon me with a short smile,--just the end of one,--and -raised his delicate eyebrows. "Be that as it may, to-night we rehearse -first, in the lesser hall; there will be nobody present but the band. -The Chevalier will hold his own rehearsal the week after next, for -there is a work of his on this occasion,--therefore we shall prepare, -and, I trust, successfully; so that the polishing only will remain for -him." - -"Bravo, sir!" - -"I hope it will be bravo; but it is no bravo at present," said he, in -dismissing me. - -I had never heard Anastase play yet, and was very curious,--I mean, I -had never heard him play consecutively; his exhibitions to us being -confined to short passages we could not surmount,--bar upon bar, -phrase upon phrase, here a little, and there a very little. But now he -must needs bring himself before me, to play out his own inner nature. - -I found Delemann in his own place presently,--a round box, like a -diminutive observatory, at the very top of the building, and -communicating only with similar boxes occupied by the brass in -general. I let myself in, for it would have been absurd to knock -amidst the demonstrations of the alto trombone. He was so ardent over -that metallic wonder of his that I had to pluck his sleeve. Even then -he would not leave off, at the risk of splitting that short upper lip -of his by his involuntary smile, until he had finished what lay before -him. It was one great sheet, and I espied at the top the words: "Mer -de Glace,--Ouverture; Seraphael." Madder than ever for a conclusion, I -stopped my ears till he laid down that shining monster and took -occasion to say, "That is what we are to have to-night." - -"I know. But how abominable is Anastase not to let me have my part to -practise!" - -"Very likely it is not ready. The brass came this morning, and the -strings were to follow. Mine was quite damp when I had it." - -We went into rehearsal together, Franz and I. What a different -rehearsal from my first in England! Here we were all instruments. -Franz was obliged to leave me on entering, and soon I beheld him afar -off, at the top of the wooden platform, on whose raised steps we -stood, taking his place by the tenor trombone,--a gentleman of adult -appearance who had a large mouth. I have my own doubts, private and -peculiar, about the superior utility of large mouths, because Franz, -of the two, played best; but that is no matter here. - -Our _saal_ was a simple room enough, guiltless of ornament; our -orchestra deal, clear of paint or varnish; our desks the same, but -light as ladies' hand-screens,--this was well, as Anastase, who was -not without his crochet, made us continually change places with each -other, and we had to carry them about. There were wooden benches all -down the _saal_, but nobody sat in them; there was not the glimmer of -a countenance, nor the shine of two eyes. The door-bolts were drawn -inside; there was a great and prevalent awe. The lamps hung over us, -but not lighted; the sun was a long way from bed yet, and so were we. -Anastase kept us at "L'Amour Fugitif" and "Euryanthe,"--I mean, their -respective overtures,--a good while, and was very quiet all the time, -until our emancipation in the "Mer de Glace." His _face_ did not -change even then; but there was a fixity and straightening of the arm, -as if an iron nerve had passed down it suddenly, and he mustered us -still more closely to him and to each other. My stand was next his -own; and, looking here and there, I perceived Iskar among the second -violins, and was stirred up,--for I had not met with him except at -table since I came there. - -It is not in my power to describe my own sensations on my first -introduction to Seraphael's orchestral definite creation. Enough to -say that I felt all music besides, albeit precious, albeit -inestimable, to have been but affecting the best and highest portion -of myself, but as exciting to loftier aspirations my constant soul; -but that _his_ creation did indeed not only first affect me beyond all -analysis of feeling, but cause upon me, and through me, a change to -pass,--did first recreate, expurge of all earthly; and then inspire, -surcharged with heavenly hope and holiest ecstasy. That qualitative -heavenly, and this superlative holiest, are alone those which disabuse -of the dread to call what we love best and worship truest by name. No -other words are expressive of that music which alone realizes the -desire of faith,--faith supernal alike with the universal faith of -love. - -As first awoke the strange, smooth wind-notes of the opening _adagio_, -the fetterless chains of ice seemed to close around my heart. The -movement had no blandness in its solemnity, and so still and -shiftless was the grouping of the harmonies that a frigidity actual, -as well as ideal, passed over my pores and hushed my pulses. After a -hundred such tense, yet clinging chords, the sustaining calm was -illustrated, not broken, by a serpentine phrase of one lone oboe, -_pianissimo_ over the _piano_ surface, which it crisped not, but on -and above which it breathed like the track of a sunbeam aslant from a -parted cloud. The slightest possible retardation at its close brought -us to the refrain of the simple _adagio_, interrupted again by a rush -of violoncello notes, rapid and low, like some sudden under-current -striving to burst through the frozen sweetness. Then spread wide the -subject as plains upon plains of _water-land_, though the time was -gradually increased. Amplifications of the same harmonies introduced a -fresh accession of violoncelli, and oboi contrasted artfully in -syncopation, till at length the strides of the _accelerando_ gave a -glittering precipitation to the entrance of the second and longest -movement. - -Then Anastase turned upon me, and with the first bar we fell into a -tumultuous _presto_. Far beyond all power to analyze as it was just -then, the complete idea embraced me as instantaneously as had the -picturesque chilliness of the first. I have called it tumultuous, but -merely in respect of rhythm; the harmonies were as clear and evolved -as the modulation itself was sharp, keen, unanticipated, -unapproachable. Through every bar reigned that vividly enunciated -ideal, whose expression pertains to the one will alone in any -age,--the ideal that, binding together in suggestive imagery every -form of beauty, symbolizes and represents something beyond them all. - -Here over the surge-like, but fast-bound _motivo_--only like those -tossed ice-waves, dead still in their heaped-up crests--were certain -swelling _crescendos_ of a second subject, so unutterably, if vaguely, -sweet that the souls of all deep blue Alp-flowers, the clarity of all -high blue skies, had surely passed into them, and was passing from -them again. - -Scarcely is it legitimate to describe what so speaks for itself as -music; yet there are assuredly effects produced by music which may be -treated of to the satisfaction of the initiated. - -It was not until the very submerging climax that the playing of -Anastase was recalled to me. Then, amidst long, ringing notes of the -wild horns, and intermittent sighs of the milder wood, swept from the -violins a torrent of coruscant _arpeggi_, and above them all I heard -his tone, keen but solvent, as his bow seemed to divide the very -strings with fire; and I felt as if some spark had fallen upon my -fingers to kindle mine. As soon as it was over, I looked up and -laughed in his face with sheer pleasure; but he made no sign, nor was -there the slightest evidence of the strenuous emotion to which he had -been abandoned,--no flush of cheek nor flash of eye, only the least -possible closer contraction of the slight lips. He did nothing but -find fault, and his authority appeared absolute; for when he -reprimanded Iskar in particular, and called him to account for the -insertion extraordinary of a queer _appogiatura_, which I did not know -he had heard, that evil one came down without a smirk, and minced -forth some apology, instead of setting up his crest, as usual. I was -very thankful at last when the room was cleared, as it was infernally -hot, and I had made up my mind to ask Anastase whether my violin were -really such a good one; for I had not used it before this night. - -When no one was left except he and I, I ventured to ask him whether I -could carry anything anywhere for him, to attract his attention. - -"Yes," said he, "you may gather up all the parts and lay them together -in that closet," pointing to a wooden box behind the platform; "but do -not put your own away, because you are going to look over it with me." - -I did as he directed, and then brought myself back to him. But before -I could begin, he took my fiddle from my arms, and turning it round -and round, demanded, "Where did you get this?" I told him in a few -words its history, or what I imagined to be its history. He looked -rather astonished, but made no comment, and then he began to play to -me. I do not suppose another ever played like him; I may, perhaps, -myself a very little, but I never heard anybody else. The peculiar -strength of his tone I believe never to have been surpassed; the -firmness of his _cantabile_ never equalled; his expression in no case -approached. Santonio's playing dwindled in my mind, for Anastase, -though so young, performed with a pointedness altogether mature; it -was that on which to repose unshifting security for the most ardent -musical interest; yet, with all its solidity, it was not severe even -in the strictest passages. Of all playing I ever heard on my adopted -instrument, and I have heard every first-rate and every medium -performer in Europe, it was the most forceful,--let this term suffice -just here. I said to him when he had finished with me, "How much -fuller your playing is than Santonio's! I thought his wonderful until -I heard yours." But with more gentleness than I had given him credit -for, he responded, laying down my little treasure, "I consider his -playing myself far more wonderful than mine. Mine is not wonderful; -it is a wrong word to use. It is full, because I have studied to make -it the playing of a leader, which must not follow its own vagaries. -Neither does Santonio, who is also a leader, but a finer player than -I,--finer in the sense of delicacy, experience, finish. Now go and eat -your supper, Auchester." - -"Sir, I don't want any supper." - -"But I do, and I cannot have you here." - -I knew he meant he was going to practise,--it was always his supper, I -found; but he had become again unapproachable. I had not gained an -inch nearer ground to him, really, yet. So I retired, and slipped into -the refectory, where Franz was keeping a seat for me. - -I was positively afraid to go out the next Sunday, and the next it -rained,--we all stayed in. On the following Wednesday would come our -concert, and by this time I knew that the Chevalier would be -accompanied by certain of his high-born relations. But do not imagine -that we covered for them galleries with cloth and yellow fringe. It -was altogether to me one of my romance days; and, as such, I partook -in the spirit of festivity that stirred abroad. The day before was -even something beyond romance. After dinner we all met in the -garden-house, as we called the pillared alcove, to arrange the -decorations for our hall, which were left entirely to ourselves, at -our united request. About fifty of us were of one mind, and, somehow -or other, I got command of the whole troop,--I am sure I did not mean -to put myself so. I sent out several in different directions to gather -oak-branches and lime-boughs, vine-leaves and evergreens, and then sat -down to weave garlands for the arches among a number more. Having seen -them fairly at work, I went forth myself, and found Maria Cerinthia -at home; she came with me directly, and we made another pilgrimage in -search of roses and myrtles. Josephine went too, and we all three -returned laden from the garden of a sincere patroness down in the -valley beneath the hill, of whom we had asked such alms. - -Entering Cecilia, after climbing the slope leisurely, we saw a coach -at the porter's door,--the door where letters and messages were -received, not the grand door of the school, which all day stood open -for the benefit of bustling Cecilians. I thought nothing of this -coach, however, as one often might have seen one there; but while -Maria took back Josephine, I obtained possession of all the flowers -which she had placed in my arms, promising to be with us anon in the -garden-house. Past the professors' rooms I walked; and I have not yet -mentioned the name of Thauch, our nominal superintendent, the -appointed of the Chevalier, who always laughingly declared he had -selected him because he knew nothing about music, to care for us _out_ -of music. Thauch sat at the head of the middle table, and we scarcely -saw him otherwise or spoke to him; thus I was astonished, and rather -appalled, to be called upon by him when I reached his room, which was -enclosed, and where he was writing accounts. I was not aware he even -knew my name; but by it he called upon me. "Sir," I said, "what do you -want?" as I did not desire to halt, for fear of crushing up my sweet -fresh roses. He had risen, and was in the doorway, waiting, with true -German deliberation, until I was quite recovered from my -breathlessness; and then he did not answer, but took my shoulders and -pushed me into his parlor, himself leaving the room, and shutting -himself out into the passage. - -Shall I ever forget it? For, gasping still, though I had thrown all my -flowers out of my arms, I confronted the bright, old-fashioned, -distinct, yet dream-like faces of two who sat together upon the chairs -behind the door. You will not expect me to say how I felt when I found -they were my own sister Millicent, my own Lenhart Davy, and that they -did not melt away. I suppose I did something,--put out my hands, -perhaps, or turned some strange color which made Davy think I should -faint; for he rose, and coming to me, with his hilarious laugh put his -arms about me and took me to my sister. When once she had kissed me, -and I had felt her soft face and the shape of her lips, and smelled -the scent of an Indian box at home that clung to her silk handkerchief -yet, I cried, and she cried too; but we were both quiet enough about -it,--she I only knew was crying by her cheek pressing wet against -mine. After a few moments so unutterable, I put myself away from her, -and began distinctly to perceive the strangeness of our position. -Millicent, as I examined her, seemed to have grown more a woman than I -remembered; but that may have pertained to her dress, so different -from the style with which I associated her,--the white ribbons and -plain caps under the quaint straw bonnet, and the black-silk spencer. -Now, she wore a mantle of very graceful cut, and the loveliest pink -lining to her delicate fancy hat; this gave to her oval countenance a -blushful clearness that made her look lovely in my eyes. And when I -did speak, what do you think I said? "Oh, Millicent, how odd it is! -Oh, Mr. Davy, how odd you look!" - -"Now, Charles," said he, in answer,--and how the English accents -thrilled the tears into my eyes,--"now, Charles, tell me what you mean -by growing so tall and being so self-possessed. You are above my -shoulder, and you have lost all your impudence." - -"No, Mr. Davy, I haven't--kiss me!" said I; and I threw my arms about -him, and clung on there till curiosity swelled unconquerable. - -"Oh, Mr. Davy, how extraordinary it is of you to come so suddenly, -without telling me! And mother never said the least word about it. Oh, -Millicent, how did you get her to let you come? And, oh," suddenly it -struck me very forcibly, "how very strange you should come with Mr. -Davy! Is anybody ill? No, you would have told me directly, and you -would not be dressed so." - -Millicent looked up at Davy with an unwonted expression, a new light -in her eyes, that had ever slept in shade; and he laughed again. - -"No, nobody is ill, and she would _not_ be dressed so if I had not -given her that bonnet, for which she scolded me instead of thanking -me,--for it came from Paris." - -"Oh!" I exclaimed, and I felt all over bathed in delight. I ran to -Millicent, and whispered into that same bonnet, "Oh, Millicent! are -you married to Mr. Davy?" - -She pulled off one of her pale-colored gloves and showed me the left -hand. I saw the ring--oh, how strange I felt,--hot and cold; glad and -sorry; excited, and yet staid! I flew to my first friend and kissed -his hand: "Dear Mr. Davy, I am so glad!" - -"I thought you would be, Charles. If I had anticipated any objection -on your part, I should have written to you first!" - -"Oh, Mr. Davy!" I cried, laughing, "but why did they not write and -tell me?" - -"My dear brother, it was that we wished to spare you all -disappointment." - -"You mean I could not have come home. No, I don't think I could, even -for your wedding, Millicent, and yours, Mr. Davy; we have been so busy -lately." - -Davy laughed. "Oh, I see what an important person you have become! We -knew it; and it was I who persuaded your mother not to unsettle you. I -did it for the best." - -"It was for the best, dearest Charles," said Millicent, looking into -Davy's face as if perfectly at home with it. She had never used to -look into his face at all. - -"Oh!" I again exclaimed, suddenly reminded, "what did you wear, -Millicent, to be married in?" - -"A white muslin pelisse, Charles, and Miss Benette's beautiful veil." - -"Yes; and, Charles," continued Davy, "Millicent gratified us both by -asking Miss Benette to be her bridesmaid." - -"And did she come?" I asked, rather eagerly. - -"No, Charles; she did not." - -"I knew she would not," I thought, though I scarcely knew why. - -"But she came, Charles, the night before, and helped them to dress the -table; and so beautiful she made it look that everybody was -astonished,--yet she had only a few garden flowers, and a _very_ few -rare ones." - -"But how long have you been married, Mr. Davy? and are you going to -live _here_? What will the class do? Oh, the dear class! Who sits by -Miss Benette now, Mr. Davy?" - -He laughed. - -"Oh, Charles, if you please, one question at a time! We have been -married one week,--is it not, Millicent?" - -She smiled and blushed. - -"And I am not going to leave my class,--it is larger now than you -remember it. And I have not left my little house, but I have made one -more room, and we find it quite wide enough to contain us." - -"Oh, sir, then you came here for a trip! How delicious! Oh, Millicent, -do you like Germany? Oh, you will see the Chevalier." - -"Well, Charles, it is only fair, for we have heard so much about him. -Nothing in your letters but the Chevalier, and the Chevalier, and we -do not even know his name from _you_. Clo says whenever your letters -come, 'I wish he would tell us how he sleeps;' and my mother hopes -that Seraphael is 'a good man,' as you are so fond of him." - -"But, Charles," added Davy, with his old earnestness and with a -sparkling eye, "how, then, shall we see him, and where? For I would -walk barefoot through Germany for that end." - -"Without any trouble, Mr. Davy, because to-morrow will be our concert, -and he is coming to conduct his new overture,--only his new overture, -mind! He will sit in the hall most part, and you will see him -perfectly." - -"My dear, dear Charles," observed Millicent, "it is something strange -to hear you say 'our concert.' How entirely you have fulfilled your -destiny! And shall we hear you play?" - -"Yes," I replied, with mock modesty, but in such a state of glowing -pride that it was quite as much as I could do to answer with becoming -indifference. "Yes, I am to play a first violin." - -"A first violin, Charles?" said Davy, evidently surprised. "What! -already? Oh, I did not predict wrong! What if I had kept you in my -class? But, Millicent, we must not stay," he added, turning to her; -"we only came to carry Charles away, as we are here on forbidden -ground." - -"Not at all, Mr. Davy," I cried, eager to do the honors of Cecilia. "A -great many of them go out to see their friends and have their friends -come to see them; but I had no one until now, you see." - -"Yes, but, Charles," replied my sister, "we understand that no -visitors are permitted entrance the day before a concert, and thought -it a wise regulation too. They made an exception in our case because -we came so far, and also because we came to take you away." - -"Where are we going, then? Going away?" - -"Only to the inn, where we have a bed for you engaged, that we may see -something of you out of study. You must go with us now, for we have -obtained permission." - -"Whatever shall I do?" - -"What now, Charles?" - -"Well, Mr. Davy, you may laugh, but we are to decorate our -concert-hall, and they are waiting for me, I daresay. All those -flowers, too, that you made me throw down, were for garlands. If I -might only go and tell them how it is--" - -"See, Charles, there is some one wanting to speak to _you_. I heard a -knock." - -I turned, and let in Franz. He could not help glancing at the pink -lining, while he breathlessly whispered, "Do not mind us. Fräulein -Cerinthia is gone to fetch her brother; and while they are at supper, -we shall dress the hall under her directions, and she says you are to -go with your friends." - -"That is my sister, Delemann," said I; and then I introduced them, -quite forgetting that Millicent had changed her name, which amused -them immensely after Franz was gone, having gathered up my roses and -taken them off. Then Davy begged me to come directly, and I hurried to -my room and took him with me. How vain I felt to show him my press, my -screen, my portmanteau full of books, and my private bed, my violin, -asleep in its case; and last, not least, his china cup and saucer, in -the little brown box! While I was combing my hair, he stood and -watched me with delight in his charming countenance, not a cloud upon -it. - -"Oh, dear Mr. Davy, how exquisite it is that you should be my brother! -I shall never be able to call you anything but Mr. Davy, though." - -"You shall call me whatever you please. I shall always like it." - -"And, sir, please to tell me, am I tidy,--fit to walk with a bride and -bridegroom?" - -"Not half smart enough! Your sister has brought your part of the -wedding ceremony in her only box,--and, let me tell you, Charles, you -are highly favored; for the muslin dresses and laces will suffer in -consequence!" - -"I don't believe that, sir," said I, laughing. - -"And why not, sir?" - -"Because, sir, my sisters would none of them travel about with muslin -dresses if they had only one box." - -"They would travel about, as Mrs. Davy does, in black silk," answered -Davy, pursuing me as I ran; but I escaped him, and rejoined Millicent -first, who was waiting for us with all possible patience. - -There are a few times of our life--not the glorious eternal days, that -stand alone, but, thank God! many hours which are nothing for us but -pure and passive enjoyment, in which we exist. How exquisitely happy -was I on this evening, for example! The prospect of the morrow so -intensely bright, the present of such tender sweetness! How divine is -Love in all its modifications! How inseparable is it from repose, from -rapture! - -As we went along the village and passed the shops, in the freshening -sunbeams, low-shining from the bare blue heaven, I fetched a present -for my brother and sister in the shape of two concert-tickets, which, -contrary to Tedescan custom, were issued for the advantage of any -interested strangers. I put them into Millicent's hand, saying, "You -know I gave you no wedding-gift." - -"Yes, Charles, you gave me this," and she looked up at Davy; "I should -never have known him but for you." - -"Which means, my love, that I am also to thank Charles for introducing -me to you;" and Davy took off his hat with mock reverence. - -"Oh! that won't do, Mr. Davy; for you said you had seen a beautiful -Jewess at our window before you knew who lived in our house; and of -course you would have got in there somehow, at last." - -"_Never!_" said Davy, in a manner that convinced me he never would. - -"Then I _am_ very glad," said I,--"glad that I ran away one morning. -The Chevalier says that nothing happens accidentally to such as I." - -They laughed till they saw how serious I had grown again, and then -smiled at each other. Arrived at our inn, we rested. Will it be -believed that Davy had brought some of his own tea, besides several -other small comforts? This much amused me. After our tea--a real home -tea, which quite choked my unaccustomed faculties at first--Davy put -his wife on the sofa, and with a bright authority there was no -resisting, bade her be still while he fetched my part of the ceremony. -This consisted of half a dozen pairs of beautiful white kid -gloves,--treasures these indeed to a fiddler!--a white silk waistcoat, -a small case of Spanish chocolate, and a large cake, iced and -almonded. - -"That was made at home, Charles," said Millicent, "and is exactly like -that we sent to our friends." - -In those days it was not old fashion, gentle reader, to send out -bride-cake to one's friends. I need only mention a white favor or two, -and a frosted silver flower, because I reserved the same for Josephine -Cerinthia. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -In my box-bed at that flower-baptized inn, I certainly did not sleep -so well as in my own nest at school. Here it was in a box, as ever in -that country of creation; and in the middle of the night I sat up to -wonder whether my sister and new-found brother thought the _locale_ as -stifling as I did. I was up before the sun, and dressed together with -his arrangement of his beams. We had--in spite of the difficulty to -get served in rational fashion--a right merry breakfast, thanks to the -company and the tea. I had not tasted such, as it appeared to me, -since my infancy. - -How Davy did rail against the toilet short-comings,--the meagre, -shallow depths of his basin! And he was not happy until I took him to -my portion (as we called our sleeping-places at Cecilia), and let him -do as he pleased with my own water-magazine. This was an artificial -lake of red ware, which was properly a baking-dish, and which I had -purchased under that name for my private need. If it had not been for -the little river which flowed not half a mile from our school, and -which our Cecilians haunted as a bath through summer, I could not -answer, in my memory's conscience, for their morality if, as I of -course believe, cleanliness be next to godliness. - -After breakfast, and after I had taken Davy back, I returned myself -alone to seek Maria and escort her. Davy and Millicent seemed so -utterly indisposed to stir out until it was necessary, and so unfit -for any society but each other's, that I did not hesitate to abscond. -I left them together,--Davy lazier than I had ever seen him, and _she_ -more like brilliant evening than unexcited morning. What am I writing? -Is morning ever unexcited to the enthusiast? I think his only repose -is in the magical supervention of the mystery night brings to his -heart. - -I was sorry to find that neither Maria, Josephine, nor Joseph was at -home. The way was clear upstairs, but all the doors were locked, as -usual, when they were out; and I went on to Cecilia in a pet. It was -nine when I arrived,--quite restored. Our concert was to be at ten. - -What different hours are kept in Germany; what different hearts cull -the honey of the hours! Our dining-hall was full; there was a great -din. Our garden-house was swept and garnished as I remembered it the -day I came with one, but not quite so enticing in its provisions,--that -is to say, there were no strawberries, which had been so interesting -to me on the first occasion. I retreated to the library. No one was -there. I might not go among the girls, whose establishment was apart, -but I knew I should meet them before we had to take our places; and -off I scampered to Franz's observatory. Will it be believed?--he was -still at work, those brass lips embracing his, already dressed, his -white gloves lying on his monster's cradle. - -"My dear Delemann," I exclaimed, "for pity's sake, put that down now!" - -"My dear Carl, how shall I feel when that moment comes?" pointing to -the up-beat of bar 109, where he first came in upon the field of the -score. - -"I don't think you will feel different if you practise half an hour -more, any how." - -"Yes, I shall; I want rubbing up. Besides, I have been here since -six." - -"Oh, Delemann, you are a good boy! But I don't feel nervous at all." - -"You, Carl! No, I should think not. You will have no more -responsibility than the hand of a watch, with that Anastase for the -spring,--works, too, that never want winding up, and that were bought -ready made by our patroness." - -"Dear Franz, do come; I am dying to see the hall." - -"I don't think it is done. Fräulein Cerinthia went out to get some -white roses for a purpose she held secret. The boughs are all up, -though." - -"My dear Franz, you are very matter of fact." - -"No, I am not, Carl; the tears ran down my face at rehearsal." - -"That was because I made a mouth at you, which you wanted to laugh at, -and dared not." - -"Well," said Franz, mock mournfully, "I can do nothing with you here, -so come." - -He rolled up his monster and took up his gloves. I had a pair of -Millicent's in my pocket. - -"We must not forget to call at the garden-house for a rose to put -here," said Franz, running his slight forefinger into his button-hole. -We accordingly went in there. A good many had preceded us, and rifled -the baskets of roses, pinks, and jasmine, that stood about. While we -were turning over those still left, up came somebody, and whispered -that Anastase was bringing in the Cerinthias. I eagerly gazed, -endeavoring, with my might, to look innocent of so gazing. But I only -beheld, between the pillars, the clear brow and waving robes of my -younger master as he bent so lowly before a maiden raimented in white, -and only as he left her; for he entered not within the alcove. As he -retreated, Maria advanced. She was dressed in white, as I have said; -but so dazzling was her beauty that all eyes were bent upon her. All -the chorus-singers were in white; but who looked the least like her? -With the deep azure of our order folded around her breast, and on that -breast a single full white rose, with that dark hair bound from the -arch of her delicate forehead, she approached and presented us each -also with a single rose, exquisite as her own, from the very little -basket I had carried to her that Sunday, now quite filled with the few -flowers it contained. "They are so fresh," said she, "that they will -not die the whole morning!" And I thought, as I saw her, that nothing -in the whole realm of flowers was so beautiful, or just then so fresh, -as herself! - -A very little while now, and our conductor, Zittermayer, the superior -in age of Anastase, but his admirer and sworn ally, came in and -ordered the chorus forwards. They having dispersed, he returned for -ourselves,--the gentry of the band. As soon as I aspired through the -narrow orchestra door, I beheld the same sight in front as from the -other end at the day of my initiation into those sceneries, or very -much the same,--the morning sun, which gleamed amidst the leafy -arches, and in the foreground on many a rosy garland. For over the -seats reserved for the Chevalier and his party, the loveliest flowers, -relieved with myrtle only, hung in rich festoons; and as a keystone to -the curtained entrance below the orchestra, the Cecilia -picture--framed in virgin roses by Maria's hand--showed only less -fair than she. At once did this flower-work form a blooming barrier -between him and the general audience, and illustrate his exclusiveness -by a fair, if fading, symbol. - -The hall had begun to fill; and I was getting rather nervous about my -English brother and sister, who could not sit together, however near, -when they entered, and found just the seats I could have chosen for -them. Millicent, at the side of the chamber, was just clear of the -flowery division; for I gesticulated violently at her to take such -place. - -I felt so excited then, seeing them down there,--of all persons those -I should have most desired in those very spots,--that I think I should -have burst into tears but for a sudden and fresh diversion. While I -had been watching my sister and brother, a murmur had begun to roll -amidst the gathered throng, and just as the conductor came to the -orchestra steps, at the bottom he arrested himself. The first stroke -of ten had sounded from our little church, and simultaneously with -that stroke the steward, bearing on his wand the blue rosette and -bunch of oak-leaves, threw open the curtain of the archway under us -and ushered into the appropriated space the party for whose arrival we -auspiciously waited. I said Zittermayer arrested himself,--he waited -respectfully until they were seated, and then bowed, but did not -advance to salute them further. They also bowed, and he mounted the -steps. - -I was enchanted at the decorum which prevailed at that moment; for, as -it happened, it was a more satisfactory idea of homage than the most -unmitigated applause on the occasion. The perfect stillness also -reigned through Cherubini's overture, not one note of which I heard, -though I played as well as any somnambule, for I need scarcely say I -was looking at that party; and being blessed with a long sight, I saw -as well as it was possible to see all that I required to behold. - -First in the line sat a lady, at once so stately and so young looking, -that I could only conjecture she was, as she was, _his_ mother. A -woman was she like, in the outlines of her beauty, to the Medicis and -Colonnas, those queens of historic poesy; unlike in that beauty's -aspect which was beneficent as powerful, though I traced no trait of -semblance between her and her super-terrestrial son. She sat like an -empress, dressed in black, with a superb eye-glass, one star of -diamonds at its rim, in her hand; but still and stately, and unsmiling -as she was, she was ever turned slightly towards him, who, placed by -her side, almost nestled into the sable satin of her raiment. He was -also dressed in black, this day, and held in those exquisite hands a -tiny pair of gloves, which he now swung backwards and forwards in time -to the movement of our orchestra, and then let fall upon the floor; -when that stately mother would stoop and gather them up, and he would -receive them with a flashing smile, to drop them again with -inadvertence, or perhaps to slide into them his slender fingers. -Hardly had I seen and known him before I saw and recognized another -close beside him. If _he_ were small and sylphid, seated by his -majestic mother, how tiny was that delicate satellite of his, who was -nestled as close to his side as he to hers. It was my own, my little -Starwood, so happily attired in a dove-colored dress, half frock, half -coat, trimmed with silver buttons, and holding a huge nosegay in his -morsels of hands. I had scarcely time to notice him after the first -flush of my surprise; but it was impossible to help seeing that my pet -was as happy as he could well be, and that he was quite at home. - -Next Starwood was a brilliant little girl with long hair, much less -than he, nursing a great doll exquisitely dressed; and again, nearest -the doll and the doll's mamma, I perceived a lady and a pair of -gentlemen, each of whom, as to size, would have made two Seraphaels. -They were all very attentive, apparently, except the Chevalier; and -though he was still by fits, I knew he was not attending, from the -wandering, wistful gaze, now in the roof, now out at the windows, now -downcast, shadowy, and anon flinging its own brightness over my soul, -like a sunbeam astray from the heavens of Paradise. When at length the -point in the programme, so dearly longed for, was close at hand, he -slid beneath the flowery balustrade, and as noiselessly as in our -English music-hall, he took the stairs, and leaned against the desk -until the moment for taking possession. Then when he entered, still so -inadvertent, the applause broke out, gathering, rolling, prolonging -itself, and dissolving like thunder in the mountains. - -I especially enjoyed the fervent shouts of Anastase; his eye as clear -as fire, his strict frame relaxed. Almost before it was over, and as -if to elude further demonstrations, though he bowed with courteous -calmness, Seraphael signed to us to begin. Then, midst the delicious, -yet heart-wringing ice tones, shone out those beaming lineaments; the -same peculiar and almost painful keenness turned upon the sight the -very edge of beauty. Fleeting from cheek to brow, the rosy lightnings, -his very heart's flushes, were as the mantling of a sudden glory. - -But of his restless and radiant eyes I could not bear the stressful -brightness, it dimmed my sight; whether dazzled or dissolved, I know -not. And yet,--will it be believed?--affectionate, earnest, and -devoted as was the demeanor of those about me, no countenance -glistened except my own in that atmosphere of bliss. Perhaps I -misjudge; but it appears to me that pure Genius is as unrecognizable -in human form as was pure Divinity. I encroach upon such a subject no -further. To feel, to feel exquisitely, is the lot of very many,--it is -the charm that lends a superstitious joy to fear; but to appreciate -belongs to the few, to the one or two alone here and there,--the -blended passion and understanding that constitute, in its essence, -worship. - -I did not wonder half so much at the strong delight of the audience in -the composition. How many there are who _perceive_ art as they -perceive beauty,--perceive the fair in Nature, the pure in -science,--but receive not what these intimate and symbolize; how much -more fail in realizing the Divine ideal, the soul beyond the sight, -the ear! - -Here, besides, there were plenty of persons weary with mediocre -impressions, and the effect upon them was as the fresh sea-breeze to -the weakling, or the sight of green fields after trackless deserts. I -never, never can have enough,--is _my_ feeling when that exalted music -overbrims my heart; sensation is trebled; the soul sees double; it is -as if, brooding on the waste of harmony, the spirit met its shadow, -like the swan, and embraced it as itself. I do not know how the -composition went, I was so lost in the author's brightness face to -face; but I never knew anything go ill under his direction. The -sublimity of the last movement, so sudden yet complete in its -conclusion, left the audience in a trance; the spell was not broken -for a minute and a half, and then burst out a tremendous call for a -repeat. But woe to those fools! thought I. It was already too late; -with the mystical modesty of his nature, Seraphael had flown -downstairs, forgetting the time-stick, which he held in his hand -still, and which he carried with him through the archway. As soon as -it was really felt he had departed, a great cry for him was set -up,--all in vain; and a deputation from the orchestra was instructed -to depart and persuade him to return: such things were done in Germany -in those days! Anastase was at the head of this select few, but -returned together with them discomfited; no Seraphael being, as they -asserted, to be found. Anastase announced this fact, in his rare -German, to the impatient audience, not a few of whom were standing -upright on the benches, to the end that they might make more clatter -with their feet than on the firmer floor. As soon as all heard, there -was a great groan, and some stray hisses sounded like the erection of -a rattlesnake or two; but upon second thoughts the people seemed to -think they should be more likely to find him if they dispersed,--though -what they meant to do with him when they came upon him I could not -conjecture, so vulgar did any homage appear as an offering to that -fragrant soul. My dear Millicent and her spouse waited patiently, -though they looked about them with some curiosity, till the crowd grew -thin; and then, as the stately party underneath me made a move and -disappeared through the same curtain that had closed over Seraphael, I -darted downwards past the barrier and climbed the intervening forms to -my sister and brother. Great was my satisfaction to stand there and -chatter with them; but presently Davy suggested our final departure, -and I recollected to have left my fiddle in the orchestra, not even -sheltered by its cradle, but where every dust could insult its face. - -"Stay here," I begged them, "and I will run and put it by; I will not -keep you waiting five minutes." - -"Fly, my dear boy," cried Davy, "and we will wait until you return, -however long you stay." - -I did not _mean_ to stay more than five minutes, nor should I have -delayed, but for my next adventure. When I came to my door, which I -reached in breathless haste, lo! it was fastened within, or at least -would not be pulled open. I was cross, for I was in a hurry, and very -curious too; so I set down my violin, to bang and push against the -door. I had given it a good kick, almost enough to fracture the panel, -when a voice came creeping through that darkness, "Only wait one -little moment, and don't knock me down, please!" I knew that voice, -and stood stoned with delight to the spot, while the bolt slid softly -back in some velvet touch, and the door was opened. - -"Oh, sir!" I cried, as I saw the Chevalier, looking at that instant -more like some darling child caught at its pretty mischief than the -commanding soul of myriads, "oh, sir! I beg your pardon. I did not -know you were here." - -"I did not suppose so," he answered, laughing brightly. "I came here -because I knew the way, and because I wanted to be out of the way. It -is I who ought to beg _thy_ pardon, Carlomein." - -"Oh, sir! to think of your coming into my room,--I shall always like -to think you came. But if I had only known you were here, I would not -have interrupted you." - -"And I, had I known thou wouldst come, should not have bolted thy -door. But I was afraid of Anastase, Carlomein." - -"Afraid of Anastase, sir,--of _Anastase_?" I could find no other -words. - -"Yes, I am of Anastase even a little afraid." - -"Oh, sir! don't you like him?" I exclaimed; for I remembered Maria's -secret. - -"My child," said the Chevalier, "he is as near an angel as artist can -be,--a ministering spirit; but yet I tell thee, I fear before him. He -is so still, severe, and perfect." - -"Perfect! perfect before _you_!" - -I could have cried; but a restraining spell was on my soul,--a spell I -could not resist nor appreciate, but in whose after revelation the -reason shone clear of that strange, unwonted expression in Seraphael's -words. Thus, instead, I went on, "Sir, I understand why you came here, -that they might not persecute you,--and I don't wonder, for they are -dreadfully noisy; but, sir, they did not mean to be rude." - -"It is I who have been rude, if it were such a thing at all; but it is -not. And now let me ask after what I have not forgotten,--thy health." - -"Sir, I am very well, I thank you. And you, sir?" - -"I never was so well, thank God! And yet, Carlomein, thy cheek is -thinner." - -"Oh! that is only because I grow so tall. My sister, who is just come -from England--" Here I suddenly arrested myself, for my unaddress -stared me in the face. He just laid his little hand on my hair, and -smiled inquiringly, "Oh! tell me about thy sister." - -"Sir, she said I looked so very well." - -"That's good. But about her,--is she young and pretty?" - -"Sir, she is a very darling sister to me, but not pretty at all,--only -very interesting; and she is very young to be married." - -"She is married, then?" He smiled still more inquiringly. - -"Yes, sir, she is married to Mr. Davy, my musical godfather." - -"I remember; and this Mr. Davy, is he here too?" He left off speaking, -and sat upon the side of my bed, tucking up one foot like a little -boy. - -"Yes, sir." - -"And now, I shall ask thee a favor." - -"What is that, sir?" - -"That thou wilt let me see her and speak to her; I want to tell her -what a brother she has. Not only so, to invite her--do not be shy, -Carlomein--to my birthday feast." - -"Oh, sir!" I exclaimed; and regardless of his presence, I threw myself -into the very length of my bed and covered my face. - -"Now, if _thou_ wilt come to my feast, is another question. I have not -reached that yet." - -"But please to reach it, sir!" I cried, rendered doubly audacious by -joy. - -"But thou wilt have some trouble in coming,--shalt thou be afraid? Not -only to dance and eat sugar-plums." - -"It is all the better, sir, if I have something to do; I am never so -well as then." - -"But thy sister must come to see thee. She must not meddle, nor the -godpapa either." - -"Oh! sir, Mr. Davy could not meddle, and he would rather stay with -Millicent,--but he does sing so beautifully." - -He made no answer, but with wayward grace he started up. - -"I think they are all gone. Cannot we now go? I am afraid of losing my -_queen_." - -"Sir, who is she?" - -"Cannot it be imagined by thee?" - -"Well, sir, I only know of _one_." - -"Thou art right. A queen is only _one_, just like any other lady. -Come, say thou the name; it is a virgin name, and stills the heart -like solitude." - -"I don't think that does still." - -"Ah! thou hast found that too!" - -"Sir, you said you wished to go." - -He opened the door, the lock of which he had played with as he stood, -and I ran out first. - -The pavilion was crowded. "Oh, dear!" said Seraphael, a little piqued, -"it's exceedingly hot. Canst thou contrive to find thy friends in all -this fuss? I cannot find _mine_." - -"Sir, my brother and sister were to wait for me in the concert-hall; -they cannot come here, you know, sir. If I knew your friends, I think -I could find them, even in this crowd." - -"No," answered the Chevalier, decisively, as he cast his brilliant -eyes once round the room, "I know they are not here. I do not _feel_ -them. Carlomein, I am assured they are in the garden. For one thing, -they could not breathe here." - -"Let us go to them to the garden." - -He made way instantly, gliding through the assembly, so that they -scarcely turned a head. We were soon on the grass,--so fresh after the -autumn rains. Crossing that green, we entered the lime-walk. The first -person I saw was Anastase. He was walking lonely, and looking down, as -he rarely appeared. So abstracted, indeed, was he that we might have -walked over him if Seraphael had not forced me by a touch to pause, -and waited until he should approach to our hand. - -"See," said the Chevalier gleefully, "how solemn he is! No strange -thing, Carlomein, that I should be afraid of him. I wonder what he is -thinking of! He has quite a countenance for a picture." - -But Anastase had reached us before I had time to say, as I intended, -"I know of what he is thinking." - -He arrested himself suddenly, with a grace that charmed from his cool -demeanor, and swept off his cap involuntarily. Holding it in his hand, -and raising his serious gaze, he seemed waiting for the voice of the -Chevalier. But, to my surprise, he had to wait several moments, during -which they both regarded each other. At last Seraphael fairly laughed. - -"Do you know, I had forgotten what I had to say, in contemplating you? -It is what I call a musical phiz, yours." - -Anastase smiled slightly, and then shut up his lips; but a sort of -flush tinged his cheeks, I thought. - -"Perhaps, Auchester, you can remind the Chevalier Seraphael." - -I was so irritated at this observation that I kicked the gravel and -dust, but did not trust myself to speak. - -"Oh!" exclaimed Seraphael, quickly, "it was to request of you a -favor,--a favor I should not dare to ask you unless I had heard what I -heard to-day, and seen what I saw." - -It might have been my fancy, but it struck me that the tones were -singularly at variance with the words here. A suppressed disdain -breathed underneath his accent. - -"Sir," returned Anastase, with scarcely more warmth, "it is impossible -but that I shall be ready to grant any favor in my power. I rejoice to -learn that such a thing is so. I shall be much indebted if you can -explain it to me at once, as I have to carry a message from Spoda to -the Fräulein Cerinthia." - -Spoda was Maria's master for the voice. - -"Let us turn back, then," exclaimed Seraphael, adroitly. "I will walk -with you wherever you may be going, and tell you on the way." -Seraphael's "I will" was irresistible, even to Anastase. - -I suddenly remembered my relations, who would imagine I had gone to a -star on speculation. It was too bad of me to have left them all that -time. My impression that Seraphael had to treat at some length with my -master, induced me to say, "Sir, I have left my brother and sister -ever so long; I must run to them, I think." - -"Run, then," said the Chevalier; "thou certainly shouldst, and tell -them what detained thee. But return to me, and bring them with thee." - -I conceived this could not be done, and said so. - -"I will come to thee, then, in perhaps half an hour. But if thou canst -not wait so long, go home with thy dear friends, and I will write thee -a letter." - -I would have given something for a letter, it is true; but I secretly -resolved to wait all day rather than not see him instead, and rather -than _they_ should not see him. - -I ran off at full speed; and it was not until I reached the sunny lawn -beyond the leafy shade that I looked back. They were both in the -distance, and beneath the flickering limes showed bright and dark as -sunlight crossed the shadow. I watched them to the end of the avenue, -and then raced on. It was well I did so, or I should have missed Davy -and my sister, who, astonished at my prolonged absence, were just -about to institute a search. - -"Oh, Millicent!" I cried, as I breathlessly attained a seat in front -of both their faces, "I am so sorry, but I was obliged to go with the -Chevalier." And then I related how I had found him in my room. - -They were much edified; and then I got into one of my agonies to know -what they both thought about him. Davy, with his bright smile at -noonday, said in reply to my impassioned queries, "He certainly is, -Charles, the very handsomest person I have ever seen." - -"Mr. Davy! Handsome! I am quite sure you are laughing, or you would -never call him handsome." - -"Well, I have just given offence to my wife in the same way. It is -very well for me that Millicent does not especially care for what is -handsome." - -"But she likes beauty, Mr. Davy; she likes whatever I like; and I know -just exactly how she feels when she looks at your eyes. What very -beautiful eyes yours are, Mr. Davy! Don't you think so, Millicent?" - -Davy laughed so very loud that the echoes called back to him again, -and Millicent said,-- - -"He knows what I think, Charles." - -"But you never told me so much, did you, my love?" - -"I like to hear you say 'my love' to Millicent, Mr. Davy." - -"And I like to say it, Charles." - -"And she likes to hear it. Now, Mr. Davy, about 'handsome.' You should -not call him so,--why do you? You did not at the festival." - -"Well, Charles, when I saw this wonderful being at the festival, there -was a melancholy in his expression which was, though touching, almost -painful; and I do not see it any longer, but, on the contrary, an -exquisite sprightliness instead. He was also thinner then, and -paler,--no one can wish to see him so pale; but his colour now looks -like the brightest health. He certainly _is_ handsome, Charles." - -"Oh, Mr. Davy, I am sorry you think so! But he does look well. I know -what you mean, and I should think that he must be very happy. But -besides that, Mr. Davy, you cannot tell how often his face changes. I -have seen it change and change till I wondered what was coming next. I -suppose, Mr. Davy, it is his forehead you call handsome?" - -"It is the brow of genius, and as such requires no crown. Otherwise, I -should say his air is quite royal. Does he teach here, Charles? Surely -not." - -"No, Mr. Davy, but he appoints our professors. I suppose you know he -chose my master, Anastase, though he is so young, to be at the head of -all the violins?" - -"No, Charles, it is not easy to find out what is done here, without -the walls." - -"No, Mr. Davy, nor within them either. I don't know much about the -Chevalier's private life, but I know he is very rich, and has no -Christian name. He has done an immense deal for Cecilia. No one knows -exactly how much, for he won't let it be told; but it is because he is -so rich, I suppose, that he does not give lessons. But he is to -superintend our grand examination next year." - -"You told us so in your last letter, Charles," observed Millicent; and -then I was entreated to relate the whole story of my first -introduction to Cecilia, and of the Volkslied, to which I had only -alluded,--for indeed it was not a thing to write about, though of it I -have sadly written! - -I was in the heart of my narration, in the middle of the benches, and, -no doubt, making a great noise, when Davy, who was in front, where he -could see the door, motioned me to silence; I very well knew why, and -obeyed him with the best possible grace. - -As soon as I decently could, I turned and ran to meet the Chevalier, -who was advancing almost timidly, holding little Starwood in his hand. -The instant Starwood saw me coming, he left his hold and flew into my -arms; in spite of my whispered remonstrances, he _would_ cling to my -neck so fast that I had to present the Chevalier while his arms were -entwined about me. But no circumstance could interfere with even the -slightest effect _he_ was destined to produce. Standing before Davy, -with his little hands folded and his whole face grave, though his eyes -sparkled, he said, "Will you come to my birthday-feast, kind friends? -For we cannot be strangers with this Carl between us. My birthday is -next week, and as I am growing a man, I wish to make the most of it." - -"How old, sir, shall you be on your birthday?" I asked, I fear rather -impertinently, but because I could not help it. - -"Ten, Carlomein." - -"Oh, sir!" we all laughed, Millicent most of all. He looked at her. - -"You are a bride, madam, and can readily understand my feelings when I -say it is rather discomposing to step into a new state. Having been a -child so long, I feel it soon becoming a man; but in your case the -trial is even more obvious." - -Millicent now blushed with all her might, as well as laughed, Davy, to -relieve her embarrassment taking up the parable. - -"And when, sir, and where, will it be our happiness to attend you?" - -"At the Glückhaus, not four miles off. It is a queer place which I -bought, because it suited me better than many a new one, for it is -very old; but I have dressed it in new clothes. I shall hope to make -Charles at home some time or other before we welcome you, that he may -make you, too, feel at home." - -"It would be difficult, sir, to feel otherwise in your society," said -Davy, with all his countenance on flame. - -"I hope we shall find it so together, and that this is only the -beginning of our friendship." - -He held out his hand to Millicent, and then to Davy, with the most -perfect adaptation to an English custom considered uncouth in Germany; -Millicent looking as excited as if she were doing her part of the -nuptial ceremony over again. Meantime, for I knew we must part, I -whispered to Starwood,--"So you are happy enough, Star, I should -suppose?" - -"Oh, Charles! too happy. My master was very angry, at first, that the -Chevalier carried me away." - -"He carried you away, then? I thought as much. And so Aronach was -angry?" - -"Only for a little bit, but it didn't matter; for the Chevalier took -me away in his carriage, and said to master, 'I'll send you a rainbow -when the storm is over.' And oh! Charles, I practise four hours at a -time now, and it never tires me in the least. I shall never play like -_him_, but I mean to be his shadow." - -I loved my little friend for this. - -"Oh, Charles! I am so glad you are coming to his birthday. Oh, -Charles! I wish I could tell you everything all in a minute, but I -can't." - -"Never mind about that, for if you are happy, it is all clear to me. -Only one thing, Star. Tell me what I have got to do on this birthday." - -"Charles, it's the silver wedding, don't you know?" - -"What, is he going to be married?" - -"Who, Carlomein? Starwood won't tell!" said the Chevalier, turning -sharply upon me and bending his eyes till he seemed to peep through -the lashes. "He knows all about it, but he won't tell. Wilt thou, my -shadow? By the by, there is a better word in English,--'chum;' but we -must not talk slang, at least not till we grow up. As for thee, -Carlomein, Anastase will enlighten thee, and thou shalt not be blinded -in that operation, I promise thee. 'Tis nothing very tremendous." - -"Charles, I think we detain the Chevalier," observed Davy, ever -anxious; and this time I thought so too. - -"That would be impossible, after my detaining _you_; but I think I -must find my mother,--she will certainly think I have taken a walk to -the moon. Come, Stern! Or wilt thou leave me in the lurch for that -Carl of thine?" - -"Oh! I beg pardon, sir; please let me come too." And I dearly longed -to "come too," when I saw them leave the hall hand in hand. - -"Now, Charles, we will carry you off and give you some dinner." - -"I don't want any dinner, Mr. Davy; I must go to Anastase." - -"I knew he was going to say so!" said Millicent. "But, Charles, duty -calls first; and if you don't dine we shall have you ill." - -"I don't know whether I may go to the inn." - -"Oh, yes! Lenhart obtained leave of absence at meals for you as long -as we are here." - -"Oh! by the by, Millicent, you said you had only come for one week." - -"But, Charles, we may never have such another opportunity." - -"Yes," added Davy, "I would willingly _starve_ a month or two for the -sake of this feast." - -"Bravo, Mr. Davy. But then, Millicent?" - -"Oh, Millicent! she shall starve along with me." We all laughed, and -as we walked out of the courtyard into the bright country, he -continued,-- - -"You know, Charles, I suppose, what is to be done, musically, at this -birthday?" - -"No, Mr. Davy, not in the least; and it is because I did not that I -refused my dinner. After dinner, though, I shall go and call on Maria -Cerinthia, and make her tell me." - -"A beautiful name, Charles,--is she a favorite of yours?" - -"She is the most wonderful person I ever saw or dreamt of, Millicent; -she does treat me very kindly, but she is above all of us except the -Chevalier." - -"Is she such a celebrated singer, then?" - -"She is only fifteen; but then she seems older than you are, she is so -lofty, and yet so full of lightness." - -"A very good description of the Chevalier himself, Charles." - -"Yes, Mr. Davy, and the Chevalier, too, treats her in a very high -manner,--I mean as if he held her to be very high." - -"Is she at the school too?" - -"She only attends for her lessons; she lives in the town with her -brother, who teaches her himself and her little sister. They are -orphans, and so fond of one another." - -I was just about to say, "She is to marry Anastase;" but as I had not -received general permission to open out upon the subject, I forbore. -We dined at our little inn, and then, after depositing Davy by the -side of Millicent, who was reposing,--for he tended her like some -choice cutting from the Garden of Eden,--I set out on my special -errand. On mounting the stairs to Maria's room, I took the precaution -to listen; there were no voices to be heard just then, and I knocked, -was admitted, and entered. In the bright chamber I found my dread -young master certainly in the very best company; for Josephine was -half lost in leaning out of the window, and side by side sat Anastase -and Maria. I did not expect to see him in the least, and felt inclined -to effect a retreat, when she, without turning her eyes, which were -shining full upon his face, stretched out both her lovely hands to me: -and Anastase even said. "Do not go, Auchester, for we had, perhaps, -better consult together." - -"Yes, oh, yes, there is room here, Carlino; sit by me." - -But having spoken thus, she opened not her lips again, and seemed to -wait upon his silence. I took the seat beside her,--she was between -us; and I felt as one feels when one stands in a flower garden in the -dusk of night, for her spiritual presence as fragrance spelled me, and -the mystery of her passion made its outward form as darkness. Her -white dress was still folded round me, and her hair was still -unruffled; but she was leaning back, and I perceived, for the first -time, that his arm was round her. The slender fingers of his listless -hand rested upon the shoulder near me, and they seemed far too much at -ease to trifle even with the glorious hair, silk-drooping its braids -within his reach. _He_ leaned forwards, and looked from one to the -other of us, his blue eyes all tearless and unperturbed; but there was -a stirring blush upon his cheeks, especially the one at her side, and -so deep it burned that I could but fancy her lips had lately left -their seal upon it,--a rose-leaf kiss. Such a whirl of excitement this -fancy raised around me (I hope I was not preternatural either) that I -could scarcely attend to what was going on. - -"The Chevalier Seraphael," said Anastase, in his stilly voice, "has -been writing a two-act piece to perform at his birth-night feast,[4] -which is in honor, not so much of his own nativity, as of his parents -arriving just that day at the twenty-fifth anniversary of their -nuptials. He was born in the fifth year of their marriage, and upon -their marriage-day. We have not too much time to work (but a week), as -I made bold to tell him; but it appears this little work suggested -itself to him suddenly,--in his sleep, as he says. It is a fairy -libretto, and I should imagine of first-rate attraction. This is the -score; and as it is only in manuscript, I need not say all our care is -required to preserve it just as it now is. Your part, Auchester, will -be sufficiently obvious when you look it over with the Fräulein -Cerinthia, as she is good enough to permit you to do so; but you had -better not look at it at all until that time." - -"But, sir, she can't undertake to perfect me in the fiddle part, can -she?" - -"She could, I have no doubt, were it necessary," said Anastase, not -satirically, but seriously; "but it just happens you are not to play." - -"Not to play! Then what on earth am I to do? Sing?" - -"Just so,--sing." - -"Oh, how exquisite! but I have not sung for ever so long. In a chorus, -I suppose, sir?" - -"By no means. You see, Auchester, _I_ don't know your vocal powers, -and may not do you justice; but the Chevalier is pleased to prefer -them to all others for this special part." - -"But I never sang to him." - -"He has a prepossession, I suppose. At all events, it will be rather a -ticklish position for you, as you are to exhibit yourself and your -voice in counterpart to the person who takes the precedence of all -others in songful and personal gifts." - -"Sir,"--I was astonished, for his still voice thrilled with the -slightest tremble, and I knew he meant Maria,--"I am not fit to sing -with her, or to stand by her, I know; but I think perhaps I could -manage better than most other people, for most persons would be -thinking of their own voices, and how to set them off against _hers_; -now I shall only think how to keep my voice down, so that hers may -sound above it, and everybody may listen to it, rather than to mine." - -Maria looked continually in her lap, but her lips moved. "Will you not -love him, Florimond?" she whispered, and something more; but I only -heard this. - -"I could well, Maria, if I had any love left to bestow; but you know -how it is. I am not surprised at Charles's worship." - -It was the first time he had called me Charles, and I liked it very -well,--him better than ever. - -"I suppose, sir, I _may_ have a look at the score, though?" - -"No, you may not," said Maria, "for I don't mean we should use this -copy. I shall write it all out first." - -"But that will be useless," answered Anastase; "he made that copy for -us." - -"I beg your pardon; I took care to ask him, and he has only written -out the parts for the instruments. He thinks nothing of throwing about -his writing; but it shall be preserved, for all that." - -"And how do you mean to achieve this copy?" demanded Anastase. "When -will it be written?" - -"It will be ready to-morrow morning." - -"Fräulein Cerinthia!" I cried, aghast, "you are not going to sit up -all night?" - -"No, she is not," returned Anastase, coolly; and he left the sofa and -walked to the table in the window where it lay,--a green-bound oblong -volume of no slight thickness. "I take this home with me, Maria; and -you will not see it until to-morrow at recreation time, when I will -arrange for Auchester to join you, and you shall do what you can -together." - -"Thanks, sir! but surely you won't sit up all night?" - -"No, I shall not, nor will a copy be made. In the first place, it will -not be proper to make a copy. Leave has not been given, and it cannot -be thought of without leave,--did you not know that, Maria? No, I -shall not sit up; I am too well off, and far too selfish, too -considerate perhaps, besides, to wish to be ill." - -Maria bore this as if she were thinking of something else,--namely, -Florimond's forehead, on which she had fixed her eyes; and truly, as -he stood in the full light which so few contours pass into without -detriment, it looked like lambent pearl beneath the golden shadow of -his calm brown hair. - -My hand was on the back of the sofa; she caught it suddenly in her own -and pressed it, as if stirred to commotion by agony of bliss; and at -the same moment, yet looking on him, she said, "I wonder whether the -Chevalier had so many fine reasons when he chose somebody to -administer the leadership, or whether he did it simply because there -was no better to be had?" - -He smiled, still looking at the book, which he had safely imprisoned -between his two arms. "Most likely, in all simplicity. But a leader, -even of an orchestra, under _his_ direction is not a fairy queen." - -"Is Herr Anastase to lead the violins, then? How glorious!" I said to -Maria. - -"I knew you would say so. What then can go wrong?" - -"And now I know what the Chevalier meant when he said, 'I must go find -my queen.' You are to be Titania." - -"They say so. You shall hear all to-morrow,--I have not thought about -it, for when Florimond brought me home, I was thinking of something -else." - -"He brought you home, then?" - -"And told me on the way. But he had to tell me all over again when we -came upstairs." - -"But about the rehearsals?" - -"We shall rehearse here, in this very room, and also with the -orchestra at a room in the village where the Chevalier will meet us; -for he has his parents staying with him, and they are to know nothing -that is to happen." - -"I wish I could begin to study it to-night; I am so dreadfully out of -voice since I had my violin,--I have never sung at all, indeed, except -on Sundays, and then one does not hear one's self sing at all." - -"It is of no consequence, for the Chevalier told us your master, -Aronach, told him that your voice was like your violin, but that it -would not do to tell you so, because you might lose it, and your -violin, once gained, you could never lose." - -"That is true; but how very kind of him to say so! He need not have -been afraid, though, for all I am so fond of singing. Perhaps he was -afraid of making me vain." - -Anastase caught me up quickly. "Carl, do not speak nonsense. No -musicians are vain; no true artists, ever so young: they could no -more be vain than the angels of the Most High!" - -"Well said, Florimond!" cried Maria, in a moment. "But it strikes me -that many a false artist, fallen-angel like, indulges in that -propensity; so that it is best to guard against the possibility of -being suspected, by announcing, with free tongues, the pride we have -in our art." - -"That is better to be announced by free fingers, or a voice like -thine, than by tongues, however free; for even the false prophet can -prate of truth." - -I perceived now the turn they were taking; so I said, "And do miracles -in the name of music too, sir, can't they?--like Marc Iskar, who, I -know, is not a true artist, for all that." - -Anastase raised his brows. "True artists avoid personalities: that is -the reason why we should use our hands instead of our tongues. Play a -false artist down by the interpretation of true music; but never -cavil, out of music, about what is false and true." - -"Florimond, that is worthy to be your creed! You have mastery; we are -only children." - -"And children always chatter,--I remember that; but it is, perhaps, -scarcely fair to blame those who own the power of expression for using -it, when we feel our own tongue cleave to the roof of our mouth." - -"So generous, too!" I thought; and the thought fastened on me. I felt -more than ever satisfied that all should remain as it was between -them. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[4] Mendelssohn wrote the "Son and Stranger" in 1829 for the silver -wedding of his parents. - - - - -CHAPTER V.[5] - - -The day had come, the evening,--an early evening; for entertainments -are early in Germany, or were so in my German days. The band had -preceded us, and we four drove alone,--Maria, shrouded in her -mantilla, which she had never abandoned, little Josephine, Anastase, -and myself. Lumberingly enough under any other circumstances; on this -occasion as if in an aërial car. Dark glitter fell from pine-groves, -the sun called out the green fields, the wild flowers looked -enchanted; but for quite two hours we met no one, and saw nothing that -reminded us of our destination. At length, issuing from a valley -haunted by the oldest trees, and opening upon the freest upland, we -beheld an ancient house all gabled, pine-darkened also from behind, -but with torrents of flowers in front sweeping its windows and -trailing heavily upon the stone of the illustrated gateway. A new-made -lawn, itself more moss than grass, was also islanded with flowers in a -thick mosaic: almost English in taste and keeping was this -garden-land. I had expected something of the kind from the allusion of -the Chevalier; but it was evident much had been done,--more than any -could have done but himself to mask in such loveliness that gray -seclusion. The gateway was already studded with bright-hued lamps -unlighted, hung among the swinging garlands; and as we entered we were -smitten through and through with the festal fragrance. In the -entrance-hall I grew bewildered, and only desired to keep as near to -Anastase and Maria as possible. Here we were left a few minutes, as it -were, alone; and while I was expecting a special retainer to lead us -again thence, as in England, the curtain of a somewhat obscure -gateway, at the end of the space, was thrust aside, and a little hand -beckoned us instantaneously forward. Forward we all flew, and I was -the first to sunder the folded damask and stand clear of the mystery. -As I passed beneath it, and felt who stood so near me, I was subdued, -and not the less when I discovered where I stood. It was in a little -theatre, real and sound, but of design rare as if raised within an -Oriental dream. We entered at the side of the stage; before us, tier -above tier, stretched tiny boxes with a single chair in each, and over -each, festooned, a curtain of softest rose-color met another of -softest blue. The central chandelier, as yet unlighted, hung like a -gigantic dewdrop from a grove of oak-branches, and the workmen were -yet nailing long green wreaths from front to front of the nest-like -boxes. Seraphael had been directing, and he led us onward to the -centre of the house. - -"How exquisite!"--"How dream-like!"--"How fairy!" broke from one and -another; but I was quite in a maze at present, and in mortal fear of -forgetting my part. The Chevalier, in complete undress, was pale and -restless; still to us all he seemed to cling, passing amidst us -confidingly, as a fearful and shy-smitten child. I thought I -understood this mood, but was not prepared for its sudden alteration; -for he called to some one behind the curtain, and the curtain -rose,--rose upon the empty theatre, with the scenery complete for the -first act. And then the soul of all that scenery, the light of the -fairy life, flashed back into his eyes; elfin-like in his jubilance, -he clapped those little hands. Our satisfaction charmed him. But I -must not anticipate. Letting the curtain again fall, he preceded us to -the back of the scenery; and I will not, because I cannot in -conscience, reveal what took place in that seclusion for artists great -and small,--sacred itself to art, and upon which no one dwells who is -pressing onward to the demonstration, ever so reduced and -concentrated, of art in its highest form. - -At seven o'clock the curtain finally rose. It rose upon that tiny -theatre crowded now with clustering faces, upon the chandelier, all -glittering, like a sphere of water with a soul of fire, the lingering -day-beams shut out and shaded by a leaf-like screen. Out of all -precedent the curtain rose, not even on the overture; for as yet not a -note had sounded, since the orchestra was tuned, before the theatre -filled. It rose upon a hedge of mingled green and silver, densely -tangled leafage, and a burst of moon-colorless flowers, veiling every -player from view, and hiding every instrument of the silent throng, -who, with arm and bow uplifted, awaited the magic summons. But by all -the names of magic, how arose that flower-tower in the midst? For -raised above the screen of sylvan symbol was a turret of roots, -entwisted as one sees in old oaks that interlace their gnarled arms, -facing the audience, and also in sight of the orchestra; and this wild -nest was clad with silver lilies twice the size of life, whose -drooping buds made a coronal of the margin where the turret edged into -the air. And in the turret, azure-robed, glitter-winged,--those wings -sweeping the folded lilies as with the lustrous shadow of their -light,--stood our Ariel, the Ariel of our imaginations, the Ariel of -that haunted music, yet unspelled from the silent strings and pipes! - -We behind, among the rocks,--those gently painted rocks that faded -into a heavenly distance,--could only glimpse that delicate form, -hovering amidst up-climbing lilies, those silver-shadowy plumes; that -glorious face was shining into the light of the theatre itself, and we -waited for his voice to reassure us. We need not have feared, even -Maria and I. I was quivering and shuddering; but yet she did not sigh, -her confidence was too unshaken, albeit in such a trying position, so -minutely critical to maintain, did author perhaps never appear. In an -instant, as the first soft blaze had broken on the world in front, did -our Ariel raise his wand, no longer _like_ the stem of a lily, but a -lily-stem itself, all set with silver leaves, and whose crowning -blossom sparkled with silver frostwork. He raised it, but not yet -again let it sweep,--descending downwards, on the contrary, he clasped -it in his roseate lilied fingers; and all amidst the great white buds, -that made him shrink to elfin clearness, he began, in a voice that -might have been the soul of that charmed orchestra, to recite the -little prologue, which may thus be rendered into English: - - "A while ago, a long bright while, I dwelt - In that old Island with my Prospero. - He gave, not lent, me Freedom, which I fed - Sometimes on spicy airs that heavenward roll - From flowers that wing their spirits to the stars, - And scented shade that droppeth fruit or balm. - But soon a change smote through me, and I fell - Weary of stillness in the wide blue day, - Weary of breathless beauty, where the rose - Of sunset flushes with no fragrant sigh, - For that my soul was native with the spheres - Where music makes an everlasting morn. - All music in that ancient isle was mine - That pulsed the air or floated on the calm,-- - Old music veiled in the bemoaning breeze, - Or whispering kisses to the yearning sea, - Where foam upblown sprayed with its liquid stars - My plumes for all their dim cerulean grain. - From age to age the lonely tones I stored - In crystal deeps of unheard memory; - Froze them with virgin cold fast to the cups - Of wavering lilies; bade the roses bind - The orbed harmonies in burning rest; - Thrilled with that dread elixir, dreaming song, - The veins of violets; made the green gloom - Of myrtle-leaves hush the sounds intricate; - Charged the deep cedars with all mourning chords. - And having wide and far diffused my wealth,-- - Safe garnered, spelled, unknown of reasoning men,-- - I long to summon it, to disenchant - My most melodious treasure breathless hid - In bell and blade, in blossom-blush and buds - And mystic verdure, the soft shade of rest. - Methinks in this wild wood, this home of flowers, - My harmonies are clustered; yea, I feel - The voiceless silence stir with voiceful awe; - I feel the fanning of a thousand airs - That will not be repressed, that crave to wake - In resurrection of tone infinite - From the tranced beauty, her divinest death. - Arise, my spirits! wake, my slumbering spells! - Dawn on the dreamland of these alien dells!" - -As the last words died away, pronounced alike with the rest in accents -so peculiar, yet so pure, so soft, yet so unshaken,--he swept the stem -of lilies around his brow. The frosted flower flashed shudderingly -against the lamplight, and with its motion without a pause opened the -overture, as by those words themselves invoked and magically won from -the abyss of sylvan silence. Three long, longing sighs from the unseen -wind instruments, in withering notes, prepared the brain for the rush -of fairy melody that was as the subtlest essences of thought and -fragrance enfranchised. The elfin progression, _prestissimo_, of the -subject, was scarcely realized as the full suggestion dawned of the -leafy shivering it portrayed. The violins, their splendors -concentrated like the rainbows of the dewdrops, seemed but the veiling -voices for that ideal strain to filter through; and yet, when the -horns spoke out, a blaze of golden notes, one felt the deeper glory of -the strings to be more than ever quenchless as they returned to that -ever-pulsing flow. Accumulating in orchestral richness, as if flower -after flower of music were unsheathing to the sun, no words, no -expression self-agonized to caricature, can describe that fairy -overture. I am only reverting to the feeling, the passion it -suggested; not to its existent art and actual interpretation. - -Its dissolution not immediate, but at its fullest stream subsiding, -ebbing, seemed, instead of breaking up and scattering the ideal -impression received, to retain it and expand it in itself through -another transition of ecstasy into a musical state beyond. During the -ethereal modulations, by a sudden illumination of the stage, the -scenery behind uncurtained all along, started into light. Still -beneath the leafy cloud, by mystic management, the hidden band -reposed; but before the audience a sylvan dream had spread. The time -was sunset, and upon those hills I spoke of it seemed to blush and -burn, still leaving the foreground distinct in a sort of pearly -shadow. That foreground was masked in verdure, itself precipitous with -descending sides clothed thick with shrubs that lifted their red bells -clear to the crimson beams behind, and shelving into a bed of enormous -leaves of black-green growth such as one sometimes comes upon in the -very core of the forest. Beneath those leaves we nestled, Maria and I. -I can only speak of what I felt and others saw; not of that which any -of us heard. For simultaneously with the blissful modulation into the -keynote of the primeval strain, we began our part side by side unseen. -It was a duet for Titania and Oberon, the alto being mine, the -mezzo-soprano hers; and it was to be treated with the most distant -softness. The excitement had overpassed its crisis with me, and no -calm could have been more trance-like than that of both our voices, so -far fulfilling his aspiration, which conceived for that effect all the -passionless serenity of a nature devoid of pain,--the prerogative of a -fairy life alone. - - "Ariel, we hear thee! - Slumbering, dreaming, near thee, - Bursting from control - As from death the soul, - From the bud the flower, - From the will the power; - Risen, by the spell - Thou alone canst quell, - Hear we, Ariel, - Ariel, we feel thee! - Music, to reveal thee, - Drowns, as dawn the night, - Us in thy delight. - We, immortal, own - Thee supreme alone. - Strongest, in the spell - Thou canst raise or quell, - Feel we, Ariel!" - -And Maria shook the leaves above her spreading, and waving aside the -broad-green fans, stood out to the audience as a freshly blossomed -idea from the shadows of a poet's dream. For here had music and poetry -met together, here even as righteousness and peace had embraced, -heaven-sent and spiritual; nor was there aught of earth in that fancy -hour. I was nearest her, and supported her with my arm; her floating -scarf, transparent, spangled, fell upon my own rose-hued mantle, which -blushed through its lucid mist. Her hair, trembling with water-like -gems, clothed her to the very knees; her cheek was white as her -streaming robe, but her eye was as a midnight moon, bright yet -lambent; and while she sang she looked at Anastase, as he stood a -little above the others in the band, and appeared to have eyes for his -violin alone. The next movement was a fairy march _pianissimo_,--a -rustling, gathering accompaniment that muffled a measure delicate as -precise: it was as for the marshalling of troops of fairies, who by -the shifting of the scenery appeared clustering to the stems of the -red foxgloves that bent not beneath that fragile weight. And as the -march waned ravishingly, another verse arose for the duet we sang,-- - - "Ariel, behold us! - In thy strains enfold us, - Minding but that we - Ministrant may be. - On thy freak or sport - Waits our fairy court: - Mortals cannot tell - How to cross thy spell, - Nor we, Ariel!" - -And Ariel lifted the lily wand, and silence awaited his reply. Still, -while he spoke in that recitative so singularly contrasting with the -voice of any song, might be heard weird snatches from the veiled -orchestra, as if music fainted from delight of him,--strange sounds, -indeed, now sigh, now sob, that broke against his unfaltering accents, -yet disturbed them not. - - "Friends, royal darlings of mine ancient age, - Welcome, right welcome, in the realm of sound - To majesty and honor! Sooth to say - Long time I languished for your presences - That nothing save our Music seeks and finds; - Though Poesy seeks to find and has not met, - As we, through might of Music, face to face. - Your potence is my boon; I bid it work - With mine own spells, in soul-like, eager flame - To flash about my spirit and make day, - Till, as in times of old, we shine as one. - Far in those undulating vales apart - A castle lifts its glittering ghostly hue, - In whose calm walls, that years spare tenderly, - Dwelleth the rival soul of Faërie - And Music,--one whose very name is spell - Immutable,--for that fixed name is Love. - And Love holds yonder his best festal rite - This evening, when the moontime draweth nigh. - Twain souls love there, and meet; but not as cleft - By late long parting--they have met and loved - Years upon years, since youth; none ever loved - So long as they unparted, unappalled, - Save my Titania and her Oberon! - For twenty-five their one-like summers count - Since the dim rapture of the bridal dream. - Such among mortals jubilant they call - The Silver Wedding,--rare and purer crown - Than the wreathed myrtle of the marriage morn. - All that is rare and pure is of our own; - Our elements mix gladly into joy: - But chiefly Love is our own atmosphere, - And chiefly those who love our pensioners - Remain,--for where unsullied Love remains, - Doth Faërie consecrate its festal strains." - -The curtain fell on the first act as Ariel finished speaking. Again -rising, the scene indeed had changed. The gray castle immediately -fronted the audience, its buttresses glistening in the perfect -moonlight, the full languid orb itself divided by the dark edge of a -tower. The many windows shone ruby with the gleam inside that seemed -ready to pour through the stonework; and on the ground-floor -especially, the radiance was as if sun-lamps blazed within. And midst -the blaze, scarcely softened by the outer silver shine, rose the -exciting, exhilarating burden of an exquisite dance-measure, -brilliant, almost delirious; albeit distance-clouded, as it issued -from another band behind the stage. The long, straight alleys of -moon-bathed lindens to which the waltz-whirlwind floated, parted on -either hand and left a smooth expanse of lawn, now white, heaving like -a moon-kissed sea; and as soon as the measure had passed into its -glad refrain, two little Loves struck from the lime avenues to the -lawn, directly before the ball-room. I call them Loves; but they were -anything but Cupids, for they were mystical little creatures enough, -and in the prevailing moonlight showed like bright birds of blushing -plumage as they each carried a roseate torch of tinted flame that made -their small bodies look much like flame themselves. They were no -others than Josephine and my own Starwood; but it would have been -impossible to recognize them unprepared. As they stood they paused an -instant, and then flung the torches high into the air against the side -of the castle; and as the rose-flame kissed the moonbeams upon the -walls, it was extinguished, but the whole building burst into an -illumination entirely of silver lamps,--calm, not coruscant; -translucent, streaming; itself like concentrated moonshine, or the -light of the very lilies. And with the light that drank up into itself -the rose-radiance, our Ariel with the silvered hedge, the lilies, the -shine, the shimmer, swelled upon the vision in softest swiftness; and -Ariel, leaning upon his nest, seemed listening to the dance symphonies -afar. - -Soon a great shout arose,--no elfin call, but a cry of wonder-stricken -earthlings. And then the hall front opened,--a massy portal that -rolled back; and out of the ball-room, amidst the diminishing -dance-song, poured the dancers upon the lawn in ranks, their -fluttering airy dresses passing into the silver light like clouds. And -as they streamed forth, there broke a delicate peal of laughter in -response to the wondering shout, accompanied by the top-notes of the -violins, vividly _piano_; then Ariel arose, and himself addressed the -multitude. Sharp, sweet notes in unison, intermitted this time with -his words, but ceased when he turned to his fairy troop and incited -them to do homage to the name of love. Nor do I even essay to describe -our feats subsequently, which might in their relation tend to -deteriorate from the conviction that the illustrated music was all in -all, not their companion, but their element and creator. - -Except that in the last scene, after exhibiting every kind of charm -that can co-exist with scenic transition, the portraits of the father -and mother in whose honor the fairydom had united, appeared framed in -an archway of lilies with their leaves of silver, painted with such -skill that the imagery almost issued from the canvas; and while -Titania and Oberon supported the lustrous framework on either -hand,--themselves all shivering with the silver radiance,--on either -hand, to form a vista from which the gazers caught the picture, rose -trees of giant harebells, all silver,--white as if veined with -moonshine; and the attendant fairies, springing winged from their -roots, shook them until the tremulous silver shudder was, as it were, -itself a sound,--for as they quivered, or seemed to quiver, did the -final chorus in praise of wedded love rise chime upon chime from the -fairy voices and the rapt Elysian orchestra. - -"All that's bright must fade." This passionate proverb is trite and -travestied enough, but neither in its interpretation of necessity -irrelevant or grotesque. I do not envy those who would strangle -melancholy as it is born into the soul; and again to quote, though -from a source far higher and less investigated, "There are woes ill -bartered for the garishness of joy." Such troubles we may not christen -in the name of sorrow, for sorrow concerns our personality; and in -these we agonize for others, not a thought of self intrudes,--we only -feel and know that we can do nothing, and are silent. - -At this distance of time, with the mists of boyish inexperience upon -my memory of myself, I can only advert to the issues of that evening -as they appeared. As they are, they can only be read where all things -tell, where nothing that has happened shall be in vain, where mystery -is eternal light. How strangely I recall the smothered sound, the -long-repressed shout of rapture, that soared and pierced through the -fallen and folded curtain,--the eminent oblivion of everything but him -for whom it was uttered, or rather kept back. For the music bewitched -them still, and they could no more realize their position in front, -even among the garlanded tiers, than we behind, stumbling into regions -of lampless chaos. - -I felt I must faint if I could not retreat, and as instinctively I had -sought for Maria's hand. I found it, and it saved me; for though I -could not hear her speak, I knew she was leading me away. I had closed -my eyes, and when I opened them we were together again in the little -dressing-room that had been devoted to us alone, and in which we had -robed and waited. - -"Oh, Carlino!" said Maria, "I hope no one is coming, for I feel I must -cry." - -"Do not, pray!" I cried, for her paleness frightened me; "but let me -help you to undress. I can do that, though I could not dress you, as -the Chevalier seemed to think." - -For the Chevalier had slyly entered beforehand and had himself -invested her with the glittering costume. I was still in a dream of -those elfin hands as they had sleeked the plumes and soothed the -spangled undulations of the scarf, and I could not bear her to be -denuded of them, they had become so natural now. I had stripped off my -own roseate mantle and all the rest in a moment, and had my own coat -on before she had moved from the chair into which she had flung -herself, or I had considered what was to be done next. I was running -my fingers through my hair, somewhat distraught in fancy, when some -one knocked at the door. I went to it, and beheld, as I expected, our -Ariel,--_unarielized_ yet, except that he had doffed his wings. - -"Is she tired?" he whispered softly; "is she very tired?" And without -even looking at me, he passed in and stood before her. - -"Thank you for all your goodness!" said he, in the tenderest of all -his voices, no longer cold, but as if fanned by the same fire that had -scorched his delicate cheek to a hectic like the rose fresh open to -the sun. - -"And you, sir, oh you!" Maria exclaimed with enthusiasm, lifting her -eyes from all that cloud of hair, as twin sunbeams from the dark of -night. "Oh, your music! your music! it is of all that is the most -divine, and nothing ever has been or shall be to excel it. It breaks -the heart with beauty; it is for the soul that seeks and comprehends -it, all in all. And will you not, as you even promised, reform the -drama?" - -"If it yet remains to me, after all is known; that I cannot yet -discern. Infant germ of all my art's dread children, inspiration -demands thee only!" He checked himself; but as naturally as if no -deep, insufferable sentiment had imbued his words, his caressing calm -returned. "I did not come for a compliment, I came to help you; also -to bring you some pretty ice, made in a mould like a little bird in a -little nest. But I will not give it you now, because you are too -warm." He was smiling now, as he glanced downwards at the crystal -plate he held. - -"I am not warm," she answered, very indifferently, still with -grateful intention, "and I should like some ice better than anything, -if you are so kind as to give it me." - -"Let me feed you, then," was his sweet reply; and she made no -resistance. And he fed her, spoonful by spoonful, presenting her with -morsels so fairy that I felt he prolonged the opportunity vaguely, and -almost wondered why. Before it was over, another knock came,--very -impatient for so cool a hand, as it was that of Anastase himself. -However, there was no exhilaration of manner on his part; one would -not have thought he had just been playing the violin. - -"They are all inquiring for you, sir," he said, very respectfully, to -Seraphael; "your name is calling through and through the theatre." - -"I daresay," replied the Chevalier lightly, daringly; but he made no -show of moving, though Maria had finished the ice-bird and last straw -of the nest. Then Anastase approached. "That weight of hair will tire -you; let me fasten it up for you, Maria, and then we need detain no -one, for Carl, I see, is ready." A change came upon the Chevalier; as -if ice had passed upon his cheek, he paled, he turned proud to the -very topmost steep of his shadeless brow, he laughed coldly but -airily. "Oh, if that is it, and you want to get rid of us, Carl and I -will go. Come, Carlomein, for we are both of us in the way; but I will -say it is the first time any one ever dared to interfere between the -queen and her chosen consort." - -"It would be impossible," said Anastase, with still politeness, "that -you should be in the way,--that is our case, indeed; but Maria, as -_Maria_, would certainly not detain you." - -"Maria, as Maria, would have said you are too good, sir, to notice -the least of your servants,--too good to have come and stayed; but," -she added, looking at Anastase with her most enchanting sweetness, a -smile like love itself, "_he_ will always have it that I am content he -should do everything for me." I was astonished, for nothing, except -the seasonable excitement, could have drawn forth such demonstration -from her before the Chevalier. He was not looking at her, he looked at -me vividly; I could not bear his eyes simultaneously with Maria's -words, he had so allured my own, though I longed to gaze away. - -"Come!" he continued, holding his hand to me, "come, Carlomein." I -took his hand. He grasped me as if those elfin fingers were charged -with lightning. I shook and trembled, even outwardly, but he drew me -on with that convulsive pressure never heeding, and holding his head -so high that the curls fell backwards from the forehead. We passed to -the stage. He led me behind the stage--deserted, dim--to another door -behind that, opened by waving drapery, to the garden-land. He led me -in the air, round the outside of the temporary theatre, to the main -front of the house, to the entrance through the hall, swiftly, -silently, up the stairs into the corridor, and so to a chamber I had -never known nor entered. I saw nothing that was in the room, and -generally I see everything. I believe there were books; I felt there -was an organ, and I heard it a long time afterwards. But I was only -conscious this night that then I was with him,--shut up and closed -together with his awful presence, in the travail of presentiment. - -He had placed me on a seat, and he sat by me, still holding my hand; -but his own was now relaxed and soft, the fingers cold, as if -benumbed. - -"Carlomein," he said, "I have always loved you, as you know; but I -little thought it would be for this." - -"How, sir? Why? I am frightened; for you look so strange and speak so -strangely, and I feel as if I were going to die." - -"I wish we both were! But do not be frightened. Ah! that is only -excitement, my darling. You will let me call you so to-night?" - -"Let you, dear, dearest sir! You have always been my darling. But I am -too weak and young to be of any use to you; and that is why I wish to -die." - -"My child, if thou wert strong and manly, how could I confide in thee? -Yet God forgive me if I show this little one too much too early!" - -His eyes wore here an expression so divine, so little earthly that I -turned away, still holding his hand, which I bathed in tears that fell -shiveringly from my dull heart like rain from a sultry sky. It was the -tone that pierced me; for I knew not what he meant, or only had a -dream of perceiving _how much_. - -"Sir, you could not tell me too much. You have taught me all I know -already, and I don't intend ever to learn of anybody else." - -"My child, it is God who taught thee. It is something thou hast to -teach _me_ now." - -"Sir, is it anything about myself?" I chose to say so, but did not -think it. - -"No; about some one those eyes of thine do love to watch and wait on, -so that sometimes I am almost jealous of thine eyes! But it cannot be -a hardened jealousy while they are so baby-kind." - -"It is Maria, then, sir, of course. But they are not babies,--my eyes, -I mean; for they know all about her, and so do I. I know why sometimes -she seems looking through us instead of at us. It is because she is -seeing other eyes in her soul, and our eyes are only just eyes to her, -and nothing else,--you know what I mean, sir?" - -I said all this because I had an instinctive dread of his -self-betrayal beyond what was needed. Alas! I had not even curiosity -left. But I was mistaken in him, so far. He leaned forwards, stroked -my hair, and kissed it. - -"Whose eyes, then, Carlomein?" - -"My master, Anastase, is that person whose eyes I mean." - -"Impossible! But I was wrong to ask thee. Assuredly, thou art an -infant, and couldst even make me smile. That is a fancy only. Not -Anastase, my child! Any one but Anastase." - -What anguish curled beneath those coaxing tones! - -"Sir, I know nothing about it, except that it is true. But that it is -true I _do_ know, for Maria told me so herself; and they will be -married as soon as she is educated." I trembled as I spoke in sore -dismay; for the truth was borne to me that moment in a flash of -misery, and all I could feel was what I was fool enough to say, "Oh -that I were Maria!" He turned to me in an instant; made a sort of -motion with both his arms, like wings, having released the hand I -held. I looked up now, and saw that a more awful paleness--a virgin -shadow appalling as that of death--had fixed his features. I threw -myself into his arms; he was very still, mute, all gentleness. I -kissed the glistening dress, the spangled sleeves. He moved not, -murmured not. At last my tears would flow. They rushed, they scalded; -I called out of the midst of them, and heard that my own voice, child -as I was, fell hollow through my hot lips. - -"Oh, let my heart burst! Do let me break my heart!" I sobbed, and a -shiver seemed to spread from my frame to his. He brought me closer to -his breast, and bowed his soft curls till they were wet with my wild -weeping through and through. It heaved not. No passion swelled the -pulses of that heart; still he shivered as if his breath were passing. -In many, many minutes I heard his voice; it was a voice all tremble, -like a harp-string jarred and breaking. "Carlomein, you will ever be -dearer to me than I can say from this night; for you have seen sorrow -no man should have seen, and no woman could have suffered. You know -what I wished; yet perhaps not yet,--how should you? Carlomein, when -you become a man I hope you will love me as you do now when you know -what I do feel, what I do wish. May you never despise suffering for my -sake! May you never suffer as I do! You _only_ could; I know no one -else, poor child! God take you first, before you suffer _so_. You see -the worst of it is, Carlomein, that we need not have suffered at all, -if I had only known it from the beginning. But it is very strange, is -it not?" He spoke as if inviting me to question him. - -"What, dearest sir?" - -"That she should not love me. How could she help it?" - -Of all his words, few as they were indeed, these touched me most. I -felt, indeed, how could she help it? But I was, child as I was, too -wise to say so. - -"You see, sir, she could not help loving Anastase!" - -"Nor could I help loving her, nor can I; but the sorrow is, Carlomein, -that neither on earth nor in heaven will she wish to be mine." - -"Sir, in heaven it won't matter whether she married Anastase or not; -for if she were perfect here, she could but love you, and _there_ she -will be perfect and will understand you, sir." - -"Sweet religion, if true. Sweet philosophy,--false as pleasant." - -"But, sir, you will not be unhappy, because it is of no use; and -besides, she will find it out, and you would not like that. And you -will not break your heart, sir, because of music." - -"I should never break my heart, Carlchen, under any earthly -circumstances." He smiled upon me indifferently; a pure disdain -chiselled every feature in that attitude. "There is now no more to be -said. I need scarcely say, my child, never speak of this. But I _will_ -command you to forget it--as I forget--have already forgotten." - -He rose, and passed his hand, with weary grace, over the curls that -had fallen forward; and then he took me by the hand and we went out -together, I knew not whither. - -I returned that night with my brother and sister to Cecilia. I never -had taken part in a scene so brilliant as the concluding banquet, -which was in the open air, and under shade lamp-fruited; but I knew -nothing that happened to me, was cold all over, and for a time, at -least, laid aside my very consciousness. Millicent was positively -alarmed by my paleness, which she attributed, neither wrongly, to -excitement; and it was in consequence of her suspicion that we retired -very early. - -We met no one,--having bowed to the king and queen of the night's -festival,--nor did I behold the Chevalier, except in the distance, as -he glided from table to table to watch that all should fare well at -them, though he never sat himself. Maria was seated by Anastase. I -noticed them, but did not gaze upon them. Their aspect sickened me. -It was well that Millicent believed me ill, for I was thus not obliged -to speak, and she and Davy had it all to themselves on the road. - -That time, when she got me to bed, I became strangely affected in a -fashion of my own, and not sleeping at all, was compelled to remain -there day after day for a week, not having the most shadowy notion of -that which was my affection. It was convenient that Davy knew a great -deal about such suffering on his own account, or I might have been -severely tampered with. He would not send for a doctor, as he -understood what was the matter with me; and presently I got right. In -fact, my nerves, ever in my way, were asserting themselves furiously; -and as I needed no physic, I took none, but trusted Davy and kept -quiet. - -I heard upon my resuscitation that Maria, Anastase, and Delemann had -all been to inquire after me, and, oh, strange sweetness! also the -Chevalier. It was some satisfaction when Millicent said he was looking -very well and had talked to her for half an hour. This news tended -most to my restoration of anything; and it was not ten days before I -returned to school, my people having left the village the same morning -only. - -I saw as much of Anastase as before, now; but I felt as if till now I -had never known him, nor of how infinite importance a finite creature -may become under certain circumstances. In a day or two I had worked -up to the mark sufficiently to permit myself a breath of leisure; and -towards the afternoon I went after Maria, to accompany her home. This -she permitted; but I knew that Anastase would be with her in the -evening, and refused her invitation to enter, for I felt I could not -bear to see them together just then. I entreated her, therefore, to -take a walk with me instead. She hesitated, on account of her -preparation for the morrow; but when I reminded her that Anastase -desired her to walk abroad daily, she assented. "Florimond would be -pleased." - -Up the green sides of the hill we wandered, and again into the valley. -It was a mild day, with no rude wind to break the silken thread of -conversation, and I was mad to talk to her. I could hardly tell how to -begin, though I knew what I wanted to find out well enough; but I need -not have been afraid. She was singularly unsuspicious. - -"So, Carl," she began herself, "the Chevalier took you into his -room,--his very room where he writes, was it?" - -"I don't know," I said, "whether he writes there. I should think he -would write anywhere. But it was stuffed full of books and had an -organ." - -"A large organ?" - -Heaven help and pardon me! I had not seen anything in the room -specifically; but I drew upon my imagination,--usually a lively spring -enough. - -"Oh! yes, a very large organ, with beautiful carving about -it,--cherubs above, with their wings spread, I believe; and the books -bound exquisitely, and set in cabinets." - -"What sort of furniture?" - -"I don't know. Oh! I think it was dark red, and very rich looking. -Embroidered cloths, too, upon the tables and sofas,--but really I may -be mistaken, because, you see, I was not looking at them." - -"No, I should think not. Carnation is his favorite color, you know; he -told me so." - -"He tells you everything, I think, Maria." - -"Yes, of course he does,--just as one talks to a little child that -asks for stories." - -"That is not the reason,--it cannot be. Besides, he always talks about -himself to you, and one never talks about one's self to children." - -"Do not you? But, Carl, he chiefly talks to me about music." - -"And for that, is he not himself music? But, Maria, I can, telling you -his favorite color, talking about himself as much as if he told you he -had a headache." - -"Well, Carl, he did come to me when he had scratched his finger and -ask me to tie it up." - -"And did you? Was that since _the_ evening?" - -"It was the day before yesterday. He was going to play somewhere. But, -Carl, we shall not hear him play again." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I mean not until next year. He is going to travel." - -"To travel--going away--where--who with?" I was stupid. - -"He told us all so the other day,--just before you returned, Carl. He -went through all the class-rooms to bid farewell. I was in the second -singing-room with Spoda and two or three others. He spoke to Spoda, -'Have you any commands for Italy,--any part of Italy? I am going -unexpectedly, or we would have had a concert first; but now we must -wait until May for our concert.' Spoda behaved very well and exhibited -no surprise, only showered forth his _confetti_ speeches about -parting. Then the Chevalier bowed to us who were there and said, 'My -heart will be half here, and I shall hope to find Cecilia upon the -self-same hill,--not a stone wanting.' And then he sighed; but -otherwise he looked exceedingly happy. And who, do you think, is going -with him?" - -"His father, I should imagine." - -"No; old Aronach, and your little friend,--who, Carl, I suspect, makes -a sort of chevalier of you, from what I hear." - -"Yes; he is very fond of me. But, Maria, what is he going away for? Is -he going to be married?" - -She smiled with her own peculiar expression,--wayward, yet warm. - -"Oh, dear, no! nothing of the kind, I am sure. I cannot fancy the -Chevalier in love even. It seems most absurd." - -"I do not think that; he is too lovable not to be loved." - -"And that is just why he never will love--to marry, I mean--until he -has tried everything else and pleased himself in every manner." - -"Maria, how do you know? And do you think he will marry one day?" - -"Carl, I believe there is not anything he will not do; and yet he will -be happy, very happy,--only not as he expects. I am certain the -Chevalier thinks he should find as much in love as in music,--for -himself, I mean. Now, I believe it would be nothing to him in -comparison." - -I could scarcely contain myself, I so sincerely felt that she was -mistaken. But I seriously resolved to humor her, lest I should say too -much, or she should say too little. - -"Oh, of course! But I don't think he would _expect_ to find more in -love, because he knows how he is loved." - -"Not _how_, Carl, only how much." - -"But, Maria, I fancy he wants as much love as music; and that is -plenty." - -"But, Carl, he makes the music, and we love him in it, just as we -love God in His works; and I cannot conceive of any love being -acceptable to him when it infringed his right as supreme." - -"You mean that he is proud." - -"So proud that if love came to him without music, I don't think he -would take any notice of it." - -I felt as surely as she did, sure of that singular pride, but also -that it was not a fallen pride, and that she could read it not. - -"You mean, Maria, that if you and I were not musical,--supposing such -a thing to be possible,--he would not like us nor treat us as he does -now?" - -"I know he would not." - -"But then it would be impossible for us to be as we are if we were -changed as to music, and we could not love as we do." - -"I don't think that has anything to do with it, and indeed I am sure -not. You see, Carl, you make me speak to you openly. I have never done -so before, and I should not, but that you force me to it,--not that I -dislike to speak of it, for I think of nothing else,--but that it -might be troublesome." - -Could it be that she was about, in any sense, to open her heart? Mine -felt as if it had collapsed, and would never expand again; but I was -very rejoiced, for many reasons. - -"Oh, Maria! if I could hear you talk all day about your own feelings, -I should know really that you cared to be my friend; but I could not -ask you to do so, nor wish, unless you did." - -"Carl, if you were not younger than I am I should hesitate, and still -more if, where I came from, we did not become grown up so fast that -our lives seem too quick, too bright! Oh! I have often thought so, -and shall think so again; but I will not now, because I intend to be -very happy. You know, Carl, you cannot understand, though you may -_feel_, what I feel when I think of Florimond. And it is possible you -think him higher than I do, for you do him justice now." - -"I suppose I do,--I am very certain that I adore his playing." - -"I do not care for his playing, or scarcely. And yet I am aware that -it is the playing of a master, of a musician, and I am proud to say -so. Still, I would rather be that violin than hear it, and endure the -sweet anguish he pours into it than be as I am, so far more divided -from him than it is." - -"Maria!" - -"But Florimond does not mind my feeling this, or I should not say -it,--on the contrary, he feels the same; and when first Heaven made -him love me, he felt it even then." - -"Was that long ago, Maria?" - -"It is beginning to be a long time, for it was in the summer that I -was twelve, before my father died. I was in France that summer, and -very miserable, working hard and seeming to do nothing, for my father, -rest his soul! was very severe with me, and petted Josephine,--for -which I thank and praise him, and love her all the better. We were -twenty miles from Paris, and lodged in a cottage whose roof was all -ruins; but it was a dry year, and no harm came,--besides, we had been -brought up like gypsies, and were sometimes taken for them. In the day -I practised my voice and studied Italian or German; then prepared our -dinner, which we ate under a tree in the garden, Josephine and I, -though she was almost a baby then, and slept half her time. One noon -she was asleep upon the grass, and I was playing with the flowers she -had plucked, with no sabots on, for I was very warm, when I heard a -step and peeped behind that tree. I saw a boy, or, as I thought him, a -very wonderful man, putting aside the boughs to look upon me. You have -told me, Carl, how you felt when you first saw the Chevalier; well, it -was a little as I felt when I saw that face, only instead of looking -on, as you did, I was obliged to look away and hide my eyes with my -hand. He was, to my sight, more beautiful than anything I had ever -seen or dreamed about; and therefore I could not look upon him, for I -know I was not thinking about myself. Still, I felt sure he was coming -to speak to me, and so he did; but not for a long time, for he stepped -round the tree and sat down upon the turf just near me, and played -with the sabots and the wild thyme I had played with, and presently -put out his hand to stroke Josephine's hair as it lay in my lap. I -never thought of being angry, or of wondering at him even, for the -longer I had him near me, the better, though I was rather frightened -lest my father should return; but at last he did speak, and when once -he began, there was not soon an end. We talked of all things. I can -remember nothing, but I do know this,--that we never spoke of music, -except that I told how I passed my time, and how my father taught me. -He went away before Josephine awoke, and nobody knew he had come; but -I returned the next day to the place where I had seen him, and again I -found him there. In that country one could do such things, and it was -the hour my father was absent,--for he had other pupils at the houses -of the inhabitants several miles about, and we lived frugally, in -order that he might give us all advantages when we should be old -enough. I saw Florimond every day for a week, and then for a week he -never came. That week I was taken ill,--I could not help it; I was too -young to hide it. And when he came again, I told him I should have -died if he had stayed away. And then he said that he loved me, but -that he was going a journey, and should not for a long time see me -again, but that I was never, never to forget him; and he gave me a bit -of his hair softer than any curl. I gave him, too, my mother's ring, -that I had always kept warm in my bosom; and I never even lamented -that he was departed, because I knew I should be his forever. We had a -long, long talk,--of feelings and fears and mysteries, of the flowers -of heaven and earth, of glory and bliss, of hope and ecstasy. We -poured out our hearts together, and did not even trouble ourselves to -say we loved. I think he was there three hours; but I sent him away -myself, just in time to be quite ready, and not at all in a tremble, -for my father's supper. Papa came home by sunset, much later than -usual, and I tried hard to wake up, but was as a wanderer in sleep, -until he took from his pocket a parcel and gave it me to open. He was -in great good humor to-night, for he had heard of my brother's success -at the Académie; but it was not my brother who sent the parcel, which -contained two tickets for a grand concert in Paris the next morning, -and a little anonymous billet to beg that we would go, I and my -father. - -"My father was much flattered, and still more because there was a -handful of gold to pay the expenses of our journey. This settled the -matter; we did go in the diligence that night. I took my best frock -and gloves, and we slept at a grand hotel for once in our lives, and -supped there, and breakfasted the next morning before setting out for -the concert. When I walked into the streets with my father I envied -the ladies their bonnets,--for I had not even my mantilla, it was too -shabby; and I wore alone a wreath of ivy that I had gathered from -under that very tree at home, and I was thinking too seriously of one -only person to wish to see or to be seen. We went into the very best -places, but I thought as I sat down how I must have changed in a short -time; for a little while before I would have almost sold myself to go -to this same concert, and now I did not care. There was a grand vocal -trio first, and then a fantasia for the harp, and then a tenor solo. -But next in the programme came one of Fesca's solos for the violin; -and when I saw the violinist come up into the front, I fell backwards, -and should have swooned had he not begun to play. His tones sustained -me, drew me upwards; it was Florimond,--my Florimond; mine then as -now." - -"I thought it would turn out so," I exclaimed, rudely enough. "But, -Maria, when you said music had nothing to do with love, I think you -were mistaken, or that you misunderstood yourself; for though I can't -express it, I am sure that our being musical makes a great difference -in the way we feel, and that though we don't allude to it, it will go -through everything, and make us what we are." - -"Perhaps you are right, and, Carl, I should not like to contradict -you; but I know I should have loved Florimond if he had not been a -musician,--if he had been a shoemaker, for instance." - -"Yes, because he still might have been musical; and if the music had -remained within him, it might have influenced his feelings even more -than it does now." - -"Carl, but I don't love in that way all those who are musical, -therefore why must it be the music that makes me love _him_? What -will you say to me, now, when I tell you I cannot imagine wishing to -marry the Chevalier?" - -"Maria!" - -"Carl, I could not; it would abase the power of worship in my soul, it -would cloud my idea of heaven, it would crush all my life within me. I -should be transported into a place where the water was all light and I -could not drink, the air was all fire to wither me. I should flee from -myself in him, and in fleeing, die." - -Her strange words, so unlike her youth, consumed my doubts as she -pronounced them. I shuddered inwardly, but strove to keep serene. -"Maria, that may be because you had loved when you saw him, and it -would have been impossible for you to be inconstant." - -"Carlino, no. You and I are talking of droll things for a girl and a -boy; but I would rather you knew me well, because, perhaps, it will -help you when you grow up to understand some lady better than you -would if I did not speak so openly. Under no circumstances could I -have loved him so as to wish to belong to him in that sense. For, -Carl, though it might have been inconstant, it would not have been -unfaithful to myself if I had seen and loved him better than -Florimond; it might have been that I had not before found out what I -ought to submit my soul to, nor could I have helped it; such things -have happened to many, I daresay,--to many natures, but not to mine; -if I feel once, it is entirely and for always, and I cannot think how -it is that so few women, even of my own race, are so unfixed about -their feelings and have so many fancies. I sometimes believe there is -a reason for my being different, which, if it is true, will make him -sadder than the saddest,--you can guess what I mean?" - -"Yes, Maria, but I know there is nothing in it; it is what my mother -would call a morbid presentiment, and I wish she could talk to you -about it. I should think there might be truth in it, but that it -always proves false. My sister had it once, so had my dear brother, -Mr. Davy. I don't believe people have it when they are really going to -die." - -"It is not a morbid presentiment, for 'morbid' means 'diseased,' and I -am sure I am not diseased; but my idea is that people who form so fast -cannot live long. I am only fifteen, and I feel as if I had lived -longer than anybody I know." - -"Then," said I, laughing, for I felt it was wrong to permit her much -range here, "I shall die soon, Maria." - -"No, Carl. You are not formed; you are like an infant,--your heart -tells itself out, one may count its beats and sing songs to them, as -Florimond says; but your brain keeps you back, though it is itself so -forward." - -I was utterly puzzled. "I don't understand, Maria." - -"But you will, some time. Your brain is burning, busy, always dreaming -and working. The dreams of the brain are often those which play -through the slumbers of the heart. If your heart even awoke, your -brain would still have the upper hand, and would keep down, keep back -your heart. There is no fear for you, Carl, passionate as you are." - -"Well, Maria, I must confess it frightens me a little when you talk -so,--first, because you are so young yourself; and secondly, because -if it is all true, how much you must know,--you must know almost more -than you feel; it is too much for a girl to know, or a boy either, and -I would rather know nothing than so very much." - -"Carl, all that I know I get from my heart. I am really excessively -ignorant, and can teach and tell of nothing in the world but love. -That is my life and my faith; and when my heart is bathing in the love -that is my own on earth, all earth seems to sink beneath my feet, and -I tremble as if raised to heaven. I feel as if God were behind my joy, -and as if it must be more than every other knowledge to make me feel -so. And when I sing, it is the same,--the music wraps up the love; I -feel it more and more." - -"But, Maria, you are so awfully musical." - -"Carl, till I knew Florimond I never really sang. I practised, it is -true, and was very sick of failures; but _then_ my voice grew clear -and strong, and I found what it was meant for,--therefore I cannot be -so musical as you are. And I revere you for it, Carl, and prophesy of -you such performances that you can never excel them, however much you -excel." - -"Why, Maria, how we used to talk about music together!" - -"I did not know you so well then, Carl; but do you suppose that music, -in one sense, is not all to me? I sometimes think when women try to -rise too high, either in their deeds or their desires, that the spirit -which bade them so rise sinks back again beneath the weakness of their -earthly constitution and never appeals again; or else that the spirit, -being too strong, does away with the mortal altogether,--they die, or -rather they live again." - -"Do you ever talk in this strange manner to Anastase, Maria,--I mean, -do you tell him you love him better than music?" - -"He knows of himself, not but that I have often told him; but you may -imagine how I love him, Carl, when I tell you he loves music better -than me, and yet I would have it so, chiefly for one reason." - -"What is that?" - -"That if I am taken from him he will still have something to live for -until we meet again." - -It is a strange truth that I was unappalled and scarcely touched by -these pathetic hints of hers; in fact, looking at her then, it was as -impossible to associate with her radiant beauty any idea of death as -for any but the most tasteless moralist to attach it to a new-blown -rose-flower with stainless petals. It was a day also of the most -perfect weather, and the suggestion to my mind was that neither the -day nor she--neither the brilliant vault above, nor those transparent -eyes--could ever "change or pass." I was occupied besides in -reflecting upon the mystery that divided the two souls I felt ought -never to have been separated, even _thought_ of, apart. I did not know -then how far she was right in her mystical assertion that the -premature fulness of the brain maintains the heart's first slumber in -its longest unbroken rest. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[5] The description of the fairy music contained in this chapter -evidently refers to the opera of "The Tempest," which Mendelssohn -contemplated writing in 1846-47. The composer had agreed to write an -opera on this subject for Mr. Lumley, then manager of Her Majesty's -Theatre in London, the principal _rôle_ to be given to Jenny Lind. -After considerable negotiation, M. Scribe, the eminent French adapter, -furnished a libretto, and Mr. Lumley suggested the following -distribution of parts: Prospero, Signor Lablache; Caliban, Herr -Staudigl; Fernando, Signor Gardoni; Miranda, Mademoiselle Lind; Ariel, -left unassigned. Mendelssohn, however, was dissatisfied with the -libretto, which made serious changes in the character of the story and -marred the artistic effects intended by Shakspeare; but M. Scribe -would not listen to his protests, and thus the matter fell through. -Mendelssohn then turned his attention to the legend of the Loreley as -the subject of an opera, but died shortly afterward, leaving it in a -fragmentary condition, wherefore Mr. Lumley substituted Verdi's "I -Masnadieri" for the long-promised "Tempest." It proved a failure, -however. Thus a three-fold fatality attended the "Tempest" episode in -the friendly relations of Mendelssohn and Jenny Lind. The reader who -may be curious to know the details of these interesting negotiations -will find a very complete record of them in the second volume of the -Life of Jenny Lind by Mr. Rockstro and Canon Holland, recently -published, and there for the first time given to the public from -official sources. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -I left her at her house and returned to Cecilia, feeling very lonely, -and as if I ought to be very miserable, but I could not continue it; -for I was, instead of recalling her words, in a mood to recall those -of Clara in our parting conversation. The same age as Maria, with no -less power in her heavenly maidenhood, she came upon me as if I had -seen them together, and watched the strange calm distance of those -unclouded eyes next the transparent fervors of Maria's soul,--that -soul in its self-betrayal so wildly beautiful, so undone with its own -emotion. Clara I remembered as one not to be approached or reached but -by fathoming her crystal intellect; and even then it appeared to me -that there was more passion in her enshrining stillness than in -anything but the music that claimed and owned her. But Maria had -seemed on fire as she had spoken, and even when she spoke not, she -passed into the very heart by sympathy abounding, summer-like. I -little thought how soon, in that respect, her change would come. - -There was one, too, whom I saw not again until that change. Over this -leaf of my history I can only glance, for it would be as a sheet of -light unrelieved by any shade or pencilling; suffice it to say that -day by day, in morning's golden dream, at dream-like afternoon, I -studied and soared. I was--after the Chevalier had left, and the -excitement of his possible presence had ceased--blissfully happy -again, and in much the same state as when I lived with Aronach; -certainly I did not expand, as Maria might have said. The advent of -the Chevalier, which was as a king's visit, being delayed until the -spring, I had left off hoping he might appear any fine morning, and my -initiation--"by trance"--went on apace; I was utterly undisturbed. - -At Christmas we had a concert,--a concert worthy of the name; and with -all the Christmas heartedness of Germany we dressed our beloved hall -with its evergreens and streamers. Besides, that overture, the "Mer de -Glace," which, even under an inferior conductor, would make its way, -was one of our interpretations; and it appeared to have some effect -upon the whole crew that was not very material, as nothing would do in -our after sledging party, but that all the instruments should be -carried also, and an attempt made to refrigerate the ice-movement over -again, by performing it in the frosty air, upon the frost-spelled -water. I was to have gone to England this year, as arranged; but the -old-fashioned frump, a very hard winter, had laid in great stores of -snow, with great raving winds, and my mother took fright at the idea -of my crossing the water,--besides, it was agreed that as Millicent -and Davy had seen me so lately, I could get on very well as I was -until June. - -It was not such a disappointment as it should have been, for I knew -that Clara had gone to London, and that I could not have seen her. She -was making mysterious progress, according to Davy; but I could not get -out all I wanted, for I did not like to ask for it. There was -something, too, in my present mode of life exiling from all -excitement; and it is difficult for me to look back and believe it -anything but the dream of fiction,--still, that is not strange, for -fiction often strikes us as more real than fact. - -I had a small letter from Starwood about this time. - -"Dearest Carl," he wrote, as he always spoke to me, in English, "I -wish you could see the Chevalier now, how well he looks, and how he -enjoys this beautiful country. We have been to see all the pictures -and the palaces, and all the theatres; we have heard all the cathedral -services, and climbed over all the mountains,--for, Carl, we went also -to Switzerland; and when I saw the 'Mer de Glace,' I thought it was -like that music. _Now_ we are in a villa all marble, not white, but a -soft, pale-gray color, and there are orange-trees upon the grass. All -about are green hills, and behind them hills of blue, and the sky here -is like no other sky, for it is always the same, without clouds, and -yet as dark as our sky at night; but yet at the same time it is day, -and the sun is very clear. The moon and stars are big, but there is -something in the air that makes me always want to cry. It is -melancholy, and a very quiet country,--it seems quite dead after -Germany; but then we do live away from the towns. - -"The Chevalier is writing continually, except when he is out, and the -Herr Aronach is very good,--does not notice me much, which I like. His -whole thoughts are upon the Chevalier, I think, and no wonder. Carl, I -am getting on fast with my studies, am learning Italian," etc. There -was more in the little letter; but from such a babe I could not expect -the information I wanted. Maria and her suite--as I always called her -brother Joseph and the little Josephine--had left Cecilia for -Christmas Day, which they were to spend with some acquaintance a few -leagues off, and a friend, too, of Anastase, who, indeed, accompanied -them. On Christmas Eve I was quite alone; for though I had received -many invitations, I had accepted none, and I went over to the old -place where I had lived with Aronach, to see the illuminations in -every house. It was a chilly, elfin time to me; but I got through it, -and sang about the angels in the church next day. - -To my miraculous astonishment Maria returned alone, long before -Josephine and her brother, and even without Anastase. He, it appeared, -had gone to Paris to hear a new opera, and also to play at several -places on the road. It was only five days after Christmas that she -came and fetched me from my own room, where I was shut in practising, -to her own home. When she appeared, rolled in furs, I was fain to -suppose her another than herself, produced by the oldest of all old -gentlemen for my edification, and I screamed aloud, for she had -entered without knocking, or I had not heard her. She would not speak -to me then and there, saving only to invite me, and on the road, which -was lightened over with snow, she scarcely spoke more; but arrived on -that floor I was so fond of, and screened by the winter hangings from -the air, while the soft warmth of the stove bade all idea of winter -make away, we sat down together upon the sofa to talk. I inquired why -she had returned so soon. - -"Carl," she said, smoothing down her hair, and laying over my knees -the furry cloak, "I am altering very much, I think, or else I have -become a woman too suddenly. I don't care about these things any -longer." - -"What things, Maria,--fur mantles, or hair so long that you can tread -upon it?" - -"No, Carl. But I forget that I was not talking to you yesterday, nor -yet the day before, nor for many days; and I have been dreaming more -than ever since I saw you." - -"What about?" - -"Many unknown things,--chiefly how different everything is here from -what it ought to be. Carl, I used to love Christmas and Easter and St. -John's Day; now they are all like so many cast-off children's -pictures. I can have no imagination, I am afraid, or else it is all -drawn away somewhere else. Do you know, Carl, that I came away because -I could not bear to stay with those creatures after Florimond was -gone? Florimond is, like me, a dreamer too; and much as I used to -wonder at his melancholy, it is just now quite clear to me that -nothing else is worth while." - -"Anastase melancholy? Well, so he is, except when he is playing; but -then I fancied that was because he is so abstracted, and so bound to -music hand and foot, as well as heart and soul." - -"Very well, Carl, you are always right; but my melancholy, and such I -believe his to be, is exquisite pleasure,--too fine a joy to breathe -in, Carl. How people fume themselves about affairs that only last an -hour, and music and joy are forever." - -"You have come back to music, Maria; if so, I am not sorry you went -away." - -"I never left it, Carl, it left me; but now I know why,--it went to -heaven to bring me a gift out of its eternal treasure, and I believe I -have it. Carl, Carl! my fit of folly has served me in good stead." - -"You mean what we talked about before you went, before the Chevalier -went also?" - -"Yes, I meant what I said then; but I was very empty, and in an idle -frame. I thought the last spark of music had passed out of me; but -there has come a flame from it at last." - -"What do you mean? And what has that to do with your coming back, and -with your being melancholy,--which I cannot believe quite, Maria?" - -"Oh, Carl! I am very ignorant, and have read no books; but I am pretty -sure it is said somewhere that melancholy is but the shadow of too -much happiness, thrown by our own spirits upon the sunshine side of -life. I was in that queer mood when I went to Obertheil that if an -angel had walked out of the clouds I should not have taken the trouble -to watch him; Florimond was all and enough. So he is still. But -listen, Carl. On Christmas we were in the large room, before the -table, where the green moss glittered beneath the children's tree, and -there were children of all sizes gazing at the lights. They crowded so -together that Florimond, who was behind, and standing next me, said, -'Come, Maria, you have seen all this before: shall we go upstairs -together?' And we did go out silently, we were not even missed. We -went to the room which Florimond had hired, for it was only a friend's -house, and Florimond is as proud as some one who has not his light -hair. The little window was full of stars; we heard no sound as we -stood there except when the icicles fell from the roof. The window was -open too; but I felt no cold, for he held me in his arms, and I -sheltered him, and he me. We watched the stars so long that they began -to dance below before we spoke. Then Florimond said that the stars -often reminded him how little constancy there was in anything said or -done, for that they ever shone upon that which was forgotten. And I -replied it was well that they did so, for many things happened which -had better be forgotten, or something as unmeaning. He said, then, it -was on that account we held back from expressing, even remotely, what -we felt most. And I asked him whether it might not rather be that -music might maintain its privilege of expressing what it was forbidden -to pronounce or articulate otherwise. Then he suggested that it was -forbidden to an artist to exalt himself in his craft, as he is so fond -of saying, you know, except by means of it, when it asserts itself. -And then I demanded of him that he should make it assert itself; and -after I had tormented him a good while, he fetched out his violin and -played to me a song of the stars. - -"And in that wilderness of tone I seemed to fall asleep and dream,--a -dream I have already begun to follow up, and _will_ fulfil. I have -heard it said, Carl, that sometimes great players who are no authors -have given ideas in their random moments to the greatest writers, that -these have reproduced at leisure,--I suppose much as a painter takes -notions from the colored clouds and verdant shadows; but I don't know. -Florimond, who is certainly no writer, has given me an idea for a new -musical poem, and what is more strange, I have half finished it, and -have the whole in my mind." - -"Maria! have you actually been writing?" I sprang from the sofa quite -wild, though I merely foresaw some touching memento, in wordless -_Lied_ or _scherzo_ for one-voiced instrument, of a one-hearted theme. - -"I have not written a note, Carl,--that remains to be done, and that -is why I came back so soon, to be undisturbed, and to learn of you; -for you know more about these things than I do,--for instance, how to -arrange a score." - -"Maria, you are not going to write in score? If so, pray wait until -the Chevalier comes back." - -"The Chevalier! as if I should ever plague him about my writing. -Besides, I am most particularly anxious to finish it before any one -knows it is begun." - -"But, Maria, what will you do? I never heard of a woman writing in -score except for exercise; and how will you be pleased to hear it -never once?" - -"Ah! we shall know about that when it is written." - -"Maria, you look very evil,--evil as an elf; but you are pale enough -already. What if this work make you ill?" - -"Nothing ever makes us ill that we like to do, only what we like to -have. I acknowledge, Carl, that it might make me ill if this symphony -were to be rehearsed, with a full band, before the Chevalier. But as -nothing of that kind can happen, I shall take my own way." - -"A symphony, Maria? The Chevalier says that the symphony is the -highest style of music, and that none can even attempt it but the most -formed, as well as naturally framed musicians." - -"I should think I knew that; but it is not in me to attempt any but -the highest effect. I would rather fail there than succeed in an -inferior. The structure of the symphony is quite clear to my -brain,--it always has been so; for I believe I understand it -naturally, though I never knew why until now. Carl, a woman has never -yet dared anything of the kind, and if I wait a few years longer I -must give it up entirely. If I am married, my thoughts will not make -themselves ready, and now they haunt me." - -"Maria, do _not_ write! Wait, at least, until Anastase returns, and -ask his own advice." - -"Carl, I never knew you cold before,--what is it? As if Florimond -could advise me! Could I advise him how to improve his present method? -and why should I wait? I shall not expose myself; it is for myself -alone." - -"Maria, this is the reason. You do look so fixed and strange, even -while you talk about it, that I think you will do yourself some -harm,--that is all; you did not use to look so." - -"Am I so frightful, then, Carl?" - -"You are too beautiful, Maria; but your eyes seem to have no sleep in -them." - -"They have not had, and they will not have until I have completed this -task the angel set me." - -"Oh, Maria! you are thinking of the Chevalier." - -"I was not; I was thinking of St. Cecilia. If the Chevalier had -ordered me to make a symphony, I should to everlasting have remained -among the dunces." - -I often, often lament, most sadly, that I am obliged to form her words -into a foreign mould, almost at times to fuse them with my own -expression; but the words about the angel were exactly her own, and I -have often remembered them bitterly. - -"You will find it very hard to write without any prospect of -rehearsal, Maria." - -"I can condense it, and so try it over; but I am certain of hearing it -in my head, and that is enough." - -"You will not think so still when it is written. How did it first -occur to you?" - -"In a moment, as I tell you, Carl, while the violin tones, hot as -stars that are cold in distance, were dropping into my heart. The -subjects rose in Alps before me. I both saw and heard them; there were -vistas of sound, but no torrents; it was all glacier-like,--death -enfolding life." - -"What shall you call it, Maria?" - -"No name, Carl. Perhaps I shall give it a name when it shall be really -finished; but if it is to be what I expect, no one would remember its -name on hearing it." - -"Is it so beautiful, then, Maria?" - -"To my fancy, _most_ beautiful, Carl." - -"That is like the Chevalier." - -"He has written, and knows what he has written; but I do not believe -he has ever felt such satisfaction in any work as I in this." - -"I think in any one else it would be dreadfully presumptuous,--in you -it is ambitious, I believe; but I have no fear about your succeeding." - -"Thank you, Carl, nor I. Will you stay here with me and help me?" - -"No, Maria, for you do not want help, and I should think no one could -write unless alone. But I will prevent any one else from coming." - -"No one else will come; but if you care to stay here, Carl, I can -write in my room, and you, as you said you have set yourself certain -tasks, can work in this one. I am very selfish I am afraid, for I feel -pleasantly safe when you are near me. I think, Carl, you must have -been a Sunday-child." - -"No, Maria; I was born upon a Friday, and my mother was in a great -fright. Shall you write this evening?" - -"I must go out and buy some paper." - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -We dined together, and then walked. I cannot record Maria's -conversation, for her force now waned, and I should have had to -entertain myself but for the unutterable entertainment at all times to -me of a walk. She bought enough paper to score a whole opera had she -been so disposed; and her preparations rather scared me on her -account. For me, I returned to Cecilia to inform our powers why I -should absent myself, and where remain; and when I came back with -"books and work" of my own, she was very quietly awaiting me for -supper, certainly not making attempts, either dread or ecstatic, at -present. I was, indeed, anxious that if she accomplished her -intentions at all, it should be in the vacation, as she studied so -ardently at every other time; and it was this anxiety that induced me -to leave her alone the next day and every morning of that week. I knew -nothing of what she did meanwhile, and as I returned to Cecilia every -night for sleep, I left her ever early, and heard not a note of her -progress; whether she made any or not remaining at present a secret. - -We reassembled in February. At our first meeting, which was a very -festive banquet, our nominal head and the leading professors gave us -an intimation that the examinations would extend for a month, and -would begin in May, when the results would be communicated to the -Chevalier Seraphael, who would be amongst us again at that time, and -distribute the prizes after his own device, also confer the -certificates upon those who were about to leave the school. I was not, -of course, in this number, as the usual term of probation was three -years in any specific department, and six for the academical -course,--the latter had been advised for me by Davy, and acceded to by -my mother. I gave up at present nearly my whole time to mastering the -mere mechanism of my instrument, and had no notion of trying for any -prize at all. I believe those of my contemporaries who aspired thus -were very few at all, and Marc Iskar being among them had the effect -upon me of quenching the slight fever of a desire I might have had so -to distinguish myself. It struck me that Maria should try for the -reward of successful composition; but she was so hurt, and looked so -white when I alluded to it, that it was only once I did so. As to her -proceedings, whatever they were, the most perfect calm pervaded them, -and also her. I scarcely now heard her voice in speech; though it was -spoken aloud by Spoda, and no longer whispered, that she would very -soon be fit for the next initiation into a stage career, or its -attendant and inductive mysteries. One evening I went to see her -expressly to ascertain whether she would really leave us, and I asked -her also about her intentions. - -"Carl," she said, "I wish I had any. I don't really care what they do -with me, though I wish to be able to marry as soon as possible. I -believe I am to study under Mademoiselle Venelli at Berlin when I -leave Cecilia. She teaches declamation and that style." - -"Maria, you are very cool about it. I suppose you don't mind a bit -about going." - -"I should break my heart about it if I did not know I must go one day, -and that the sooner I go the sooner I shall return,--to all I want, -at least. But I have it not in my power to say I will do this, or will -not have that, as it is my brother who educates me, and to whom I am -indebted." - -"If you go, Maria, I shall not see you for years and years." - -"You will not mind that after a little time." - -"Maria, I have never loved to talk to any one so well." - -"If that is the only reason you are sorry, I am very glad I go." - -She smiled as she spoke, but not a happy smile. I could see she was -very sad, and, as it were, at a distance from her usual self. - -"Maria, you have not told me one word about the symphony." - -"You did not ask me." - -"Were you so proud, then? As if I was not dying to see it, to hear it; -for, Maria, don't tell me you would be contented without its being -heard." - -"I am not contented at all, Carl. I am often -discontented,--particularly now." - -"About Anastase? Does not Anastase approve of your writing?" - -"He knows nothing of it. I would not tell him for a world; nor, Carl, -would you." - -"I don't know. I would tell him if it would do you any good, even -though you disliked me to do so." - -"Thanks; but it would do me no good. Florimond is poor: he could not -collect an orchestra; and proud: he would not like me to be laughed -at." - -"Then what is it, Maria?" - -"Carl, you know I am not vain." - -I laughed, but answered nothing; it was too absurd a position. - -"Well, I am dying of thirst to hear my first movement, which is -written, and which is that sight to my eyes that my ears desire it to -the full as much as they. The second still lingers,--it will not be -invoked. I could, if I could calculate the effect of the first, -produce a second equal to it, I know. But as it is yet in my brain, it -will not give place to another." - -"You have tried it upon the piano,--try it for me." - -"No, I cannot, Carl. It is nothing thus; and, strange to say, though I -have written it, I cannot play it." - -"I can believe that." - -"But no one else would, Carl; and therefore it must be folly for me to -have undertaken this writing,--for we are both children, and I suppose -must remain so, after all." - -It struck me that the melancholy which poured that pale mask upon her -face was both natural and not unnecessary,--I even delighted in it; -for a thought, almost an idea, flashed straight across my brain, and -lighted up the future, that was still to remain my own, although that -dazzle was withdrawn. I knew what to do now, though I trembled lest I -should not find the way to do it. - -"So, Maria, you are not going to finish it just now. Suppose you lend -it to me for a little. I should like to examine it, and it will do me -good." - -"Carl, it is not sufficiently scientific to do you good, but I wish -you would take it away, for if I keep it with me, I shall destroy it; -and I shall like it to remain until some day, when God has taught me -more than in myself I know, or than I can learn of men." - -"I will take the greatest care of it, Maria," I said, almost fearing -it to be a freak on her part that she suffered my possession, or that -she might withdraw it. "You will ask me for it when you want it; and, -Maria, I have heard it said that it is a good thing to let your -compositions lie by, and come to them with a fresh impression." - -"That is exactly what I think. You see with me, Carl, that all which -has to do with music is not music now." - -"I think that there is less of the world in music than in anything -else, even in poetry, Maria. But, of course, music must itself fall -short of our ideas of it; and I daresay you found that your beautiful -feelings would not change themselves into music exactly as beautiful -as they were. I know very little music yet, Maria, but I never found -_any_ that did not disappoint my feeling about it when I was hearing -it, except the Chevalier's." - -"That is it, Carl. What am I to endeavor, after anything that he has -accomplished? But I feel that if I could not produce the very highest -musical work in the very highest style, I would not produce any, and -would rather die." - -"I cannot understand that; I would rather worship than be worshipped." - -"I would not. I cannot tell why, but I have a feeling, which will not -let me be content with proving what has gone before me. Dearly as I -love Florimond, he could not put this feeling out of me. I am not -content to be an actress. There have been actresses who were queens, -and some few angels. I know my heart is pure in its desires, and I -should have no objection to reign. But it must be over a new kingdom. -No woman has ever yet composed." - -"Oh, yes, Maria!" - -"I say no to you, Carl,--not as I mean. I mean no woman has been -supreme among men, as the Chevalier among musicians. I have often -wondered why. And I feel--at least, I did feel--that I could be so, -and do this. But I feel it no longer,--it has passed. Carl, I am very -miserable and cast down." - -I could easily believe it, but I was too young to trust to my own -decision. Had Clara been speaking, I should have implicitly relied, -for she always knew herself. But Maria was so wayward, so fitful, and -of late so peculiar that I dared not entertain that confidence in her -genius which was yet the strongest presentiment that had ever taken -hold upon me. I carried away the score, which I had folded up while -she had spoken; and I shall never forget the half-forlorn, -half-wistful look with which she followed it in my arms as I left her. -But I dared not stay, for fear she should change her mind; and -although I would fain have entered into her heart to comfort her, I -could not even try. I was in a breathless state to see that score, but -not much came to my examination. The sheets were exquisitely written, -the manner of Seraphael being exactly imitated, or naturally -identical,--the very noting of a fac-simile, as well as the autograph. -It was styled, "First Symphony," and the key was F minor. But the -composition was so full and close as to swamp completely my childish -criticism. I thought it appeared all right, and very, very wonderful; -but that was all. I wrapped it in one of my best silk handkerchiefs, -to keep it from the dust, and laid it away in my box, together with my -other treasures from home, which ever reposed there; and then I -returned to my work, but certainly more melancholy than I had ever -remembered myself in life. - -In March, one day, Maria stayed from school; but her brother Joseph -brought me from her a message. She was indisposed, or said to be so, -and begged me to go and see her. There was no difficulty in doing so, -but I was surprised that Anastase should not be with her, or at least -that he should appear, as he did, so unconcerned. When I expressed my -regret to Joseph Cerinthia, he added that she was only in bed for a -cold. I was both pleased and flattered that she had sent for me, but -still could not comprehend it, as she was so little ill. I ran down, -after the morning, intending to dine with her, or not, I did not care -which. But instead of her being in bed, she was in the parlor. - -"I thought, Maria, you were not up." - -"I was not; and now I am not dressed. Carl, I sent for you to ask for -the manuscript again." - -I looked at her to see whether she meant her request, for it was by no -means easy to say. She looked very brilliant, but had an unusual -darkness round her eyes,--a wide ring of the deepest violet. She -either had wept forth that shadow, or was in a peculiar state. Neither -tears nor smiles were upon her face, and her lips burned with a living -scarlet,--no rose-soft red, as wont. Her hair, fastened under her cap -in long bands, fell here and there, and seemed to have no strength. -She had been drinking _eau sucrée_, for a glass of it was upon the -table, and a few fresh flowers, which she hastened to put away from -her as I entered. I was so much affected by her looks, though no fear -seized me, that I took her hand. It was dry and warm, but very weak -and tremulous. - -"Maria, you were at that garden last night, and danced. I knew how it -would be,--it was too early in the year." - -"I was not at the Spielheim, for when Florimond said none of you were -going from Cecilia, I declined. But no dancing would have made me ill -as I have been; it was nothing to care for, and is now past." - -"Was it cold, then? It seems more like fever." - -"It was neither, or perhaps a little of both. Let me have my score -again, Carl. I need only ask for it, you know, as it is mine." - -"You need not be so proud, Maria. I shall of course return it, but not -unless you promise me to do no more to it just now." - -"Not _just_ now. But I made believe to be ill on purpose that I might -have a day's leisure. I must also copy it out." - -"Maria, you never made believe, for if you _could_ tell a lie, it -would not be for yourself. You _have_ been ill, and I suspect much -that I know how. If you will tell me, I will fetch the score,--that -is, if it is good for you to have it. But I would rather burn it than -that it should hurt you; and I tell you, it all depends upon that." - -"I will tell you, Carl, and more, because it is over now, and cannot -happen again. I was lying in my bed, and heard the clock strike ten. I -thought also that I had heard it rain; so I got up and looked out. -There was no rain, but there were stars; and seeing them, my thoughts -grew bright,--bright as when I imagined that music; and being in the -same mood,--that is, quiet and yet excited, if you can believe in both -together,--I went to my writing. It was all there ready for me; and -Josephine, who always disturbs me, because she talks, was very fast -asleep. It may sound proud, Carlino, but I am certain the Chevalier -was with me,--that he stood behind my chair, and I could not look -round for fear of seeing him. He guided my hand; he thrust out my -ideas,--all grew clear; and I was not afraid, even of a ghost -companion." - -"But the Chevalier is alive and well." - -"And yet, I tell you, his ghost was with me. Well, Carl, I had written -until I could not see, for my lamp went out, and it was not yet light. -I suppose I then fell asleep, for I certainly had a vision." - -"What was that, Maria?" - -"Countless crowds, Carl, first, and then a most horrible whirl and -rush. Then a serene place, gray as morning before the sun, with great -golden organ-pipes, that shot up into and cut through the sky; for -although it was gray beneath, and I seemed to stand upon clouds, it -was all blue over me, and when I looked up, it seemed to return my -gaze. I heard a sound under me, like an orchestra, such as we have -often heard. But _above_, there was another music, and the golden -pipes quivered as if with its trembling; yet it was not the organ that -seemed to speak, and no instrument was there besides. This music did -not interfere with the music of the orchestra,--still playing -onwards,--but it swelled through and through it, and seemed to stretch -like a sky into the sky. Oh, Carl, that I could describe it to you! It -was like all we feel of music,--beyond all we hear, given to us in -hearing." - -She paused. Now a light, quenched in thrilling tears, arose, and -glittered from her eyes. She looked overwrought, seraphic; for though -her hand, which I still held, was not changed or cold, her countenance -told unutterable wonder,--the terrors of the heavenliest enthusiasm, I -knew not how to account for. - -"Maria, dear! I have had quite as strange dreams, and almost as sweet. -It was very natural, but you were very, very naughty all the same. -What did you do when you awoke?" - -"I awoke I don't know how, Carl, nor when; but I resolved to give -into my symphony all that the dream had given me, and I wrote again. -This time I left off, though in a very odd manner. The clock struck -five, and all the people were in the streets. I was cold, which I had -forgotten, and my feet were quite as ice. I was about to turn a leaf -when I shivered and dropped my pen. But when I stooped down to find it -in the early twilight, which, I thought, would help me, I fell upon -the floor. My head was as if fire had burst into it, and a violent -pain came on, that drove me to my bed. I have had such a pain -before,--a little, but very much less; for I believed I could not bear -it. I did fall asleep too, for a long time, and never heard a sound; -and when I arose, I was as well as I need to be, or ever expect. But -as I don't wish to be ill again, I must finish the symphony at once." - -"So you think I shall allow it? No, Maria, it is out of the question; -but I will fetch a doctor for you." - -"Carl, you are a baby. I have seen a doctor in Paris for this very -pain. He can do nothing for it, and says it is constitutional, and -that I shall always be subject to it. Everybody has something they are -subject to,--Florimond has the gout." - -I laughed,--glad to have anything at all to laugh at. - -"I am really well now, Carl,--have had a warm bath, and leeches upon -my temples; everything. The woman here has waited upon me, and has -been very kind; and now I have sent her away, for I do hate to seem -ill and be thought ill." - -"Leeches, Maria?" - -"Oh, that is nothing! I put them on whenever I choose. Did you never -have them on, Carl?" - -"No, never. I had a blister for the measles, because I could not bear -to think about leeches. I did not know people put them on for the -headache." - -"I always do, and so does everybody for such headaches as mine. But -they have taken away the pain, and that is all I care for. They are -little cold creepers, though; and I was glad to pull them off." - -"Show me the marks, Maria." - -She lifted her beautiful soft hair. Those cruel little notches were -some hieroglyph to me of unknown suffering that her face expressed, -though I was too young, and far too ignorant, to imagine of what kind -and import. - -"I promise you, Maria, that if you attempt to write any more, I will -tell Anastase. Or no,--I have thought of something far more clever: I -will make off with the rest at once." - -I had an idea of finding her sheets in her own room; and plunging into -it,--frightening Josephine, who was nursing her doll, into a remote -corner, I gathered all the papers, and folding them together, was -about to rush downstairs without returning to Maria, when she called -upon me so that I dared not help listening. For, "You dare not do it, -Carl!" she cried; "you will kill me, and I shall die now." - -Agonized by her expression, which was not even girl-like, I halted for -an instant at her open door. - -"Then, Maria, if I leave them here, on your honor, will you not touch -them or attempt to write?" - -"It is not your affair, Carl, and I am angry." - -She showed she was angry,--very pale, with two crimson spots, and she -bit her lip almost black. - -"It _is_ my affair, as you told _me_, and not your brother or -Florimond. He or Florimond would not allow it, you know as well as I -do." - -"They should and would. And, pray, why is it I am not to write? I -should say you were jealous, Carl, if you were not Carl. But you have -no right to forbid it, and shall not." - -"I do not know how to express my fear, but I am afraid, and, Maria, I -will not let it be done." - -Lest I should commit myself, I closed the door, stumbled down the dark -staircase, tore through the street, and deposited the sheets with the -others in the box. I am conscious these details are tedious and -oppressive; but they cannot be withheld, because of what I shall have -to touch upon. - -Fearful were the consequences that descended upon my devoted head. I -little expected them, and suffered from them absurdly, child as I was, -and most witless at that time. Maria returned on the following day -week, and looking quite herself, except for those violet shades yet -lingering,--still not herself to me in any sense. She scarcely looked -at me, and did not speak to me at all when I managed to meet her. -Anastase alone seemed conscious that she had been ill. He appeared -unable to rid himself of the impression; for actually during my -lesson, when his custom was to eschew a conventionalism even as a -wrong note, he asked me what had been the matter with her. I told him -I believed a very awful headache, with fever, and that I considered -she had been very ill indeed. I saw his face cloud, though he made -reply all coolness, "You are mistaken, Auchester. It was a cold, which -always produces fever, and often pain." Thus we were all alike -deluded; thus was that motherless one hurried to her Father's house! - -Meantime, silent as I kept myself on the subject of the symphony, it -held me day by day more firmly. I longed almost with suffering for the -season when I should emancipate myself from all my doubts. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -The season came, and I shall never forget its opening. It was late in -April,--exquisite weather, halcyon, blooming; my memory expands to it -now. From Italy he returned. He came upon us suddenly,--there was no -time to organize a procession, to marshal a welcome chorus; none knew -of his arrival until he appeared. - -We had been rambling in the woods, Franz and I, and were lounging -homewards, laden with wild-flowers and lily bunches. Franz was a kind -creature to me now, and in my loneliness I sought him always. We -heard, even among the moss, a noise of distant shoutings,--nobody -shouted in that spot except our own,--and we hurried homewards. I was -quite faint with expectation, and being very weary, sat down to rest -on one of those seats that everywhere invite in shady places, while -Delemann sped onwards for information. - -Returning, he announced most gleefully, "The Chevalier has arrived; -they are drawing the carriage up the hill." I am ashamed of what I -did. I could not return to Cecilia; I wandered about in the village, -possessed by a vague aspiration that I should see him there, or that -he would espy me: no such thing. - -I came back to supper excited, expectant; he was gone. I deserved it, -and felt I did, for my cowardice; but at the end of supper the head of -the central table, having waited until then, deliberately took from -his deep pocket and presented me with a note, a very tiny note, that -was none the fresher for having lain an hour or two amidst snuff and -"tabac." But this noteling almost set me raving. It was short indeed, -yet honey sweet. - - I am not to find thee here, my Carl, although I came on - purpose. Art not thou still my eldest child? Come to me, - then, to-morrow, it will be thy Sunday, and thy room shall - be ready; also two little friends of thine,--I and he. Do - not forget me. - - Thine, - SERAPHAEL. - -He had made every arrangement for my visit, and I never think of his -kindness in these particulars without being reminded that in -proportion to the power of his genius was it ever beneficently gentle. -I spent such an afternoon as would have been cheaply purchased by a -whole life of solitude; but I must only advert to one circumstance -that distinguished it. - -We were walking upon the lovely terrace amongst bright marbles just -arranged, and dazzling flowers; he was gentle, genial, animated,--I -felt my time was come. I therefore taught myself to say: "Sir, I have -a very, most particular favor to ask of you; it is that you will -condescend to give me your opinion of a piece of music which some one -has written. I have brought it with me on purpose,--may I fetch it? It -is in my hat in the house." - -"By all means, this very moment, Carlomein,--or, no, rather we will go -in-doors together and examine it quietly. It is thine own, of course?" - -"Oh, no, sir! I should have said so directly. It is a young lady's, -and she knows nothing of my bringing it. I stole it from her." - -"Ah! true," he replied, simply; and led me to that beautiful -music-room. I was fain to realize Maria's dream as I beheld those -radiant organ-pipes beneath their glorious arch, that deep-wooded -pianoforte, with its keys, milk-white and satin-soft, recalling me but -to that which was lovelier than her very vision,--the lustrous -presence pervading that luxury of artistic life. Seraphael was more -innocent, more brilliant in behavior at his home than anywhere; the -noble spaces and exquisitely appointed rooms seemed to affect him -merely as secluded warmth affects an exotic flower; he expanded more -fully, fragrantly, in the rich repose. - -At the cedar writing-table he paused, and stood waiting silently while -I fetched the score. As I unfolded it before him I was even more -astonished than ever at the perfection of its appearance; I hesitated -not the least to place it in those most delicate of all delicate -hands. I saw his eyes, that seemed to have drawn into them the very -violet of the Italian heaven, so dark they gleamed through the -down-let lashes, fasten themselves eagerly for an instant upon the -title-sheet, where, after his own fashion, Maria had written her -ancient name, "Cerinthia," only, in the corner; but then he laid the -score, having opened the first page, upon the table, and knelt down -before it, plunging his fingers into the splendid curls of his regal -head, his very brow being buried in their shadow as he bent, bowed, -leaned into the page, and page after page until the end. - -With restless rapidity his hand flashed back the leaves, his eye drank -the spirit of those signs; but he spoke not, stirred not. It seemed to -me that I must not watch him, as I was doing most decidedly, and I -disentangled myself from that revery with a shock. - -I walked to the carved music-stands, the painted music-cases. I -examined the costly manuscripts and olden tomes arrayed on polished -cabinets. I blinded myself with the sunshine streaming through stained -compartments in the windows to the carnation-toned velvet of the -furniture. I peered into the pianoforte, and yearned for it to awaken; -and rested long and rapturously before a mighty marble likeness of the -self-crowned Beethoven. It was garlanded with grapes and vine-leaves -that fondled the wild locks in gracefullest fraternity; it was mounted -upon a pedestal of granite, where also the alabaster fruits and -tendrils clustered, clasping it like frozen summer, and beneath the -bust the own investment glittered,--"Tonkunst's Bacchus."[6] It was no -longer difficult to pass away the time without being troublesome to -myself or Seraphael. I was lost in a triumphant reminiscence that the -stormy brow, the eyes of lightning, the torn heart, the weary soul, -were now heaven's light, heaven's love, its calm, its gladness. For -quite an hour I stood there, so remembering and desiring ever to -remember. And then that sweet, that living voice aroused me. Without -looking up, he said,-- - -"Do you mean to say, Carlomein, that she has had no help here?" - -"Sir, she could have had none; it was all and entirely her own. No one -knew she had written except myself." - -Then in his clearest tones he answered: "It is as I expected. It is -terrible, Carlomein, to think that this work might have perished; and -I embrace thee, Carlomein, for having secured to me its possession." - -"Is it so very good then, sir? Maria was very ignorant about it, and -could not even play it for herself." - -"I daresay not, she has made too full a score." He smiled his sweetest -smile. "But for all that, we will not strike out one note. Why is it -not finished, Carlomein?" - -I might have related the whole story from beginning to end; but his -manner was very regal just now, and I merely said: "I rather think she -was dissatisfied with the first two movements, for although she said -she could finish it, she did not, and I have kept it some time." - -"You should have written to me, Carlomein, or sent it to me; it must -and shall be finished. The work is of Heaven's own. What earthly -inspiration could have taught her strains like these? They are of a -priestess and a prophetess; she has soared beyond us all." - -He arose suddenly; a fixed glow was upon his face, his eyes were one -solemn glory. He came to the piano, he pushed me gently aside, he took -his seat noiselessly, as he began to play. I would not retire. I stood -where I could both see and hear. It was the second movement that first -arrested him. He gave to the white-faced keys a hundred voices. Tone -upon tone was built; the chords grew larger and larger; no other hand -could have so elicited the force, the burden, the breadth of the -orchestral medium, from those faint notes and few. His articulating -finger supplied all needs of mechanism. He doubled and redoubled his -power. - -Never shall I forget it,--the measures so long and lingering, the -modulations so like his own, the very subject moulded from the chosen -key, like sculpture of the most perfect chiselling from a block of the -softest grain,--so appropriate, so masterly. But what pained me -through the loveliness of the conception was to realize the mood -suggesting it,--a plaint of spiritual suffering, a hungering and -thirsting heart, a plea of exhausted sadness. - -He felt it too; for as the weary, yet unreproachful strain fell from -under his music-burdened fingers, he drooped his glorious head as a -lily in the drenching rain, his lips grew grave, the ecstatic smile -was lost, and in his eyes there was a dim expression, though they -melted not to tears. I was sure that Maria had conserved her dream, -for a strange, intermittent accompaniment streamed through the loftier -appeal, and was as a golden mist over too much piercing brightness. - -The movement was very long, and he never spoke all through it, neither -when he had played as far as she had written; but turned back to the -first, as yet untried. - -Again was I forcibly reminded of what I had said on my first -acquaintance with her; she had, without servile intention, caught the -very spirit of Seraphael as it wandered through his compositions, and -imprisoned it in the sympathy of her own. It was as two flowers whose -form is single and the same, but the hues were of different -distribution, and still his own supreme. I cannot describe the first -movement further. I was too young to be astonished, carried away by -the miracle of its consummation under such peculiar circumstances; but -I can remember how completely I felt I might always trust myself in -future when any one should gain such ascendency over my -convictions,--which, by the way, never happened. - -I must not dwell upon that evening,--suffice it to say that I left the -score with the Chevalier; and though he did not tell me so in so many -words, I felt sure he himself would restore it to the writer. - -On Monday evening I was very expectant, and not in vain, for she sent -me a note of invitation,--an attention I had not received from her -since my rebellious behavior. She was alone, and even now writing. She -arose hastily, and for some moments could not command her voice; she -said what I shall not repeat, except that she was too generous as -regarded her late distance, and then she explained what follows. - -"The Chevalier came this morning, and, Carl, I could only send for you -because it is you who have done it all for me, in spite of my -ingratitude; and, alas! I never can repay you. I feel, Carl, now, that -it is better not to have all one wishes for at once; if I had not -waited, the shock would have killed me." - -I looked at her, tried to make out to my sight that she did not, even -now, look as if ready to die; her lips had lost their fever rose, and -were pale as the violets that strewed her eyes. The faint blue threads -of veins on the backs of her hands, the thin polish of those temples -standing clear from her darkest hair,--these things burned upon my -brain and gave me a sickening thrill. I felt, "Can Anastase have seen -her? Can he have known this?" - -I was most of all alarmed at what I myself had done; still, I was -altogether surprised at the renewal of my fears, for on the Saturday -she had not only seemed, but been herself,--her cheeks, her lips, her -brow, all wearing the old healthful radiance. - -"Maria," I exclaimed, "dear Maria, will you tell me why this symphony -makes you ill, or look so ill? You were quite well on Saturday, I -thought, or you may quite believe I should never have done what I -did." - -"Do I look ill, Carl? I do not feel ill, only desperately excited. I -have no headache, and, what is better, no heart-pain now. Do you know -what is to be? I tell you, because you will rejoice that you have done -it. This work is to be finished and to be heard. An orchestra will -return my dream to God." - -"Ah! your dream, Maria,--I thought of that. But shall _I_ hear it, -Maria?" - -"You will play for me, Carl,--and Florimond. Oh! I must not remember -that. And the Chevalier, Carl,--he even entreated, the proud soul, the -divinely missioned, entreated me to perpetuate the work. I can write -now without fear; he has made me free. I feared myself before; now I -only fear him." - -"Maria, what of Anastase? Does he know, and what does he think?" - -"Do not ask me, Carl, for I cannot tell you what he did. He was -foolish, and so was I; but it was for joy on both our parts." - -"You cried then! There is nothing to be ashamed of." - -"We ought to have restrained ourselves when the Chevalier was by. He -must love Florimond now, for he fetched him himself, and told him what -I had done, and was still to do." - -It is well for us that time does not stay,--not grievous, but a -gladsome thought that all we most dread is carried beyond our reach by -its force, and that all we love and long to cherish is but taken that -it may remain, beyond us, to ripen in eternity until we too ripen to -enjoy it. Still, there is a pain, wholly untinctured with pleasure, in -recalling certain of its shocks, re-living them, returning upon them -with memory. - -The most glorious of our days, however, strike us with as troubled a -reminiscence, so that we ought not to complain, nor to desire other -than that the past should rest, as it does, and as alone the dead -beside repose,--in hope. I have brought myself to the recollection of -certain passages in my youth's history simply because there is nothing -more precious than the sympathy, so rare, of circumstance with -passion; nothing so difficult to describe, yet that we so long to -win. - -It is seldom that what happens as chance we would have left unchanged, -could we have passed sentence of our will upon it; but still more -unwonted is it to feel, after a lapse of eventful times, that what -_has_ happened was not only the best, but the only thing to happen, -all things considered that have intervened. This I feel now about the -saddest lesson I learned in my exuberant boyhood,--a lesson I have -never forgotten, and can never desire to discharge from my life's -remembrance. - -Everything prospered with us after the arrangement our friend and lord -had made for Maria. I can only say of my impressions that they were of -the utmost perfectibility of human wishes in their accomplishment, for -she had indeed nothing left to wish for. - -I would fain delineate the singular and touching gratitude she evinced -towards Seraphael, but it did not distribute itself in words; I -believe she was altogether so much affected by his goodness that she -dared not dwell upon it. I saw her constantly between his return and -the approaching examinations; but our intercourse was still and -silent. I watched her glide from room to room at Cecilia, or found her -dark hair sweeping the score at home so calmly--she herself calmer -than the calmest,--calm as Anastase himself. Indeed, to him she -appeared to have transferred the whole impetuousness of her nature; he -was changed also, his kindness to myself warmer than it ever had been; -but from his brow oppressed, his air of agitation, I deemed him verily -most anxious for the result. Maria had not more than a month to work -upon the rest of the symphony and to complete it, as Seraphael had -resolutely resolved that it should be rehearsed before our summer -separation. - -Maria I believe would not have listened to such an arrangement from -any other lips; and Florimond's dissatisfaction at a premature -publicity was such that the Chevalier--autocratic even in granting a -favor, which he must ever grant in his own way--had permitted the -following order to be observed in anticipation. - -After our own morning performance by the pupils only and their -respective masters, the hall would be cleared, the audience and -members should disperse, and only the strictly required players for -the orchestra remain; Seraphael himself having chosen these. Maria was -herself to conduct the rehearsal, and those alone whose assistance she -would demand had received an intimation of the secret of her -authorship. I trembled when the concluding announcement was made to -me, for I had a feeling that she could not be kept too quiet; also, -Anastase, to my manifest appreciation, shared my fear. But Seraphael -was irresistible, especially as Maria had assented, had absorbed -herself in the contemplation of her intentions, even to eagerness, -that they should be achieved. - -Our orchestra was, though small, brilliant, and in such perfect -training as I seldom experienced in England. Our own rehearsals were -concluded by the week before our concert, and there remained rather -less for me to do. Those few days I was inexpressibly wretched,--a -foreboding drowned my ecstatic hopes in dread; they became a constant -effort to maintain, though even everything still smiled around us. - -The Tuesday was our concert morning, and on the Sunday that week I met -Maria as we came from church. She was sitting in the sunlight, upon -one of the graves. Josephine was not near her, nor her brother, only -Florimond, who was behind me, ran and joined her before I beheld that -she beckoned to me. I did hardly like to go forward as they were both -together, but he also made me approach by a very gentle smile. The -broad lime-trees shadowed the church, and the blossoms, unopened, hung -over them in ripest bud; it was one of those oppressively sweet -seasons that remind one--at least me--of the resurrection morning. - -"Sit down by me, Carl," said Maria, who had taken off her gloves, and -was already playing with Florimond's fingers, as if she were quite -alone with him, though the churchyard was yet half filled with people. - -"Maria," I said, sitting down at the foot of a cross that was hung -with faded garlands, "why don't you sit in the shade? It is a very -warm day." - -"So it is very warm, and that is what I like; I am never warm enough -here, and Florimond, too, loves the sun. I could not sit under a tree -this day, everything is so bright; but nothing can be as bright as I -wish it. Carl, I was going to tell Florimond, and I will tell you, -that I feel as if I were too glad to bear what is before me. I did not -think so until it came so very near. I am afraid when I stand up my -heart will fail." - -"Are you frightened, Maria?" I asked in my simplicity. - -"That is not it, though I am also frightened. But I feel as if it were -scarcely the thing for me to do, to stand up and control those of whom -I am not master. Is it not so, Florimond?" - -"Maria, the Chevalier is the only judge; and I am certain you will -not, as a woman, allow your feelings to get the better of you. I have -a great deal more to suffer on your account than you can possibly -feel." - -"I do not see that." - -"It is so, and should be seen by you. If your work should in any -respect fail, imagine what that failure would cost me." - -I looked up in utter indignation, but was disarmed by the expression -of his countenance; a vague sadness possessed it, a certain air of -tender resignation; his hauteur had melted, though his manner retained -its distance. - -"As if it could be a failure!" I exclaimed; "why, we already know how -much it is!" - -"I do not, Auchester, and I am not unwilling to confess my ignorance. -If our symphony even prove worthy of our Cecilia, I shall still be -anxious." - -"Why, Florimond?" she demanded, wistfully. - -"On account of your health. You know what you promised me." - -"Not to write for a year. That is easy to say." - -"But not so easy to do. You make every point an extreme, Maria." - -"I cannot think what you mean about my health." - -"You cannot?" - -She blushed lightly and frowned a shade. "I have told you, Florimond, -how often I have had that pain before." - -"And you told me also what they said." - -His tones were now so grave that I could not bear to conjecture their -significance. He went on. - -"I do not consider, Maria, that for a person of genius it is any -hardship to be discouraged from too much effort, especially when the -effect will become enhanced by a matured experience." - -"You are very unkind, Florimond." - -Indeed, I thought so, too. - -"I only care to please you." - -"No, Maria, you had not a thought of me in writing." - -"And yet you yourself gave me the first idea. But you are right; I -wrote without reference to any one, and because I burned to do so." - -"And you burn less now for it? Tell me that." - -"I do not burn any longer, I weary for it to be over; I desire to hear -it once, and then you may take it away, and I will never see it any -more." - -"That is quite as unnatural as the excessive desire,--to have fatigued -of what you loved. But, Maria, I trust this weariness of yours will -not appear before the Chevalier, after all his pains and interest." - -"I hope so too, Florimond; but I do not know." - -It did not. The next day the Chevalier came over to Cecilia, and slept -that night in the village. The tremendous consequence of the next -twenty-four hours might almost have erased, as a rolling sea, all -identical remembrance; and, indeed, it has sufficed to leave behind it -what is as but a picture once discerned, and then forever -darkened,--the cool, early romance of the wreaths and garlands (for we -all rose at dawn to decorate the entrance, the corridors, the hall, -the reception-room), the masses of May-bloom and lilies that arrived -with the sun; the wild beauty overhanging everything; the mysterious -freshness I have mentioned, or some effects just so conceived, before. - -I myself adorned with laurels and lilies the conductor's desk, and the -whole time as much in a dream as ever when asleep,--at all events I -could even realize less. Maria was not at hand, nor could I see her, -she breakfasted alone with Anastase; and although I shall never know -what happened between them that morning, I have ever rejoiced that she -did so. - -When our floral arrangements were perfected I could not even criticise -them. I flew to my bed and sat down upon it, holding my violin, my -dearest, in my arms; there I rested, perhaps slept. Strange thoughts -were mine in that short time, which seemed immeasurably -lengthening,--most like dreams, too, those very thoughts, for they -were all rushing to a crisis. I recalled my cue, however, and what -that alarming peal of a drum meant, sounding through the avenues of -Cecilia. - -As we ever cast off things behind, my passion could only hold upon the -future. I was but, with all my speed, just in time to fall into -procession with the rest. The chorus first singing, the band in the -midst, behind, our professors in order, and on either side our own -dark lines the female pupils,--a double streak of white. I have not -alluded to our examinations, with which, however, I had had little -enough to do. But we all pressed forward in contemporaneous state, and -so entered the antechamber of the hall. It was the most purely -brilliant scene I ever saw, prepared under the eye of the masters in -our universal absence; I could recognize but one taste, but one eye, -one hand, in that blending of all deep with all most dazzling -flower-tints. - -One double garland, a harp in a circle,--the symbol of immortal -harmony,--wrought out of snowy roses and azure ribbons, hung exactly -above the table; but the table was itself covered with snowy damask, -fold upon fluted fold, so that nothing, whatever lay beneath it, could -be given to the gaze. - -Through the antechamber to the decorated hall we passed, and then a -lapse of music half restored me to myself,--only half, despite the -overture of his, with choral relief, with intersong, that I had never -heard before, and that he had written only for us: despite his -presence, his conducting charm. - -In little more than an hour we returned, pell-mell now, just as we -pleased, notwithstanding calls to order and the pulses of the -measuring voices. Just then I found myself by Maria. Through that -sea-like resonance she whispered,-- - -"Do not be surprised, Carl, if the Chevalier presents you with a -prize." - -"I have not tried for one, Maria." - -"I know that, but he will nevertheless distinguish you, I am certain -of it." - -"I hope not. Keep near me, Maria." - -"Yes, surely, if I can; but oh, Carl, I am glad to be near you! Is -that a lyre above the table? for I can scarcely see." - -She was, as I expected, pale,--not paler than ever; for it was very -long since she had been paler than any one I ever saw, except the -Chevalier. But his was as the lustre of the whitest glowing -fire,--hers was as the light of snow. She was all pale except her -eyes, and that strange halo she had never lost shone dim as the -darkliest violets, a soft yet awful hue. I had replied to her question -hurriedly, "Yes; and it must have taken all the roses in his garden." -And last of all, she said to me, in a tone which suggested more -suffering than all her air: "I wish I were one of those roses." - -The table, when the rich cover was removed, presented a spectacle of -fascination scarcely to be appreciated except by those immediately -affected. Masses of magnificently bound volumes, painted and carved -instrument-cases, busts and portraits of the hierarchy of music, lay -together in according contrast. For, as I have not yet mentioned, the -Chevalier had carried out his abolition of the badges to the utmost; -there was not a medal to be seen. But these prizes were beyond the -worth of any medal, each by each. One after another left the table in -those delicate hands, wafted to its fortunate possessor by a -compliment more delicate still, and I fancied no more remained. - -Maria still stood near me; and as the moments flew, a stillness more -utter than I could have imagined pervaded her, a marbled quietness -crept over every muscle; and as I met her exquisite countenance in -profile, with the eyes downward and fixed, and not an eyelash -stirring, she might have been the victim of despair, or the genius of -enraptured hope. - -I saw that the Chevalier had proceeded to toss over and over the -flowers which had strewn the gifts,--as if it were all, also, over -now,--and he so long continued to trifle with them that I felt as if -he saw Maria, and desired to attract from her all other eyes, for he -talked the whole time lightly, laughingly, with an air of the most -ravishing gayety, to those about him, and to every one except -ourselves. - -In a few minutes, which appeared to be a very hour, he gathered up, -with a handful of flowers that he let slip through his fingers -directly, something which he retained in his hand, and which it now -struck me that he had concealed, whatever it was, by that flower-play -of his all along; for it was even diffidently, certainly with reserve -of some kind, that he approached us last, as we stood together and did -not stir. - -"These," said he to me in a voice that just trembled, though aërially -joyous, "are too small to make speeches about; but in memory of -several secrets we have between us, I hope you will sometimes wear -them." - -He then looked full at Maria; but she responded not even to that -electric force that is itself the touch of light,--her eyes still -downcast, her lips unmoved. He turned to me, and softly, seriously, -yet half surprised, as it were, shook his head, placing in her hand -the first of the unknown caskets he had brought, and the other in my -own. She took it without looking up, or even murmuring her thanks; -still, immediately as he returned to the table, I forced it from her, -feeling it might and ought to occasion a revulsion of sensation, -however slight. - -It succeeded so far as that she gazed, still bending downwards, upon -what I held in my own hand now, and exhibited to her. It was a -full-blown rose of beaten silver, white as snow, without a leaf, but -exquisitely set upon a silver stem, and having upon one of its broad -petals a large dewdrop of the living diamond. - -I opened my own strange treasure then, having resigned to her her own. -This was a breastpin of purest gold, with the head--a great violet cut -from a single amethyst--as perfectly executed as hers. I thrust it -into my pocket, for I could not at that instant even rejoice in its -possession. And now soon, very soon, the flower-lighted space was -cleared, and we, the chosen few, alone remained. - -My heart felt as if it could only break, so violent was the pulse that -shook it. I knew that I must make an effort transcending all, or I -should lose my power to handle the bow; and at least I achieved -composure of behavior. Anastase, I can remember, came to me; he -touched my hand, and as if he longed, with all loosened passion, for -something like sympathy, looked into my very eyes. I could scarcely -endure that gaze,--it was inquisitive to scrutiny, yet dim with -unutterable forecast. - -The flowers in the concert-hall were already withering when, after a -short separation for refreshment, we returned there, and were shut in -safely by the closed doors from the distant festal throng. - -It was a strange sight, those deserted seats in front, where now none -rested saving only the Chevalier, who, after hovering amidst the -orchestra until all the ranks were filled, had descended, as was -arranged, into the void space, that he might be prepared to criticise -the performance. He did not seem much in the mood for criticism; his -countenance was lightening with excitement, his eyes burned like stars -brought near: that hectic fire, that tremulous blaze were both for -her. - -As he retreated, and folding his slender arms and raising his glorious -head, still stood, Maria entered with Anastase. Florimond led her -forward in her white dress, as he had promised himself to lead her -captive on the day of her espousals; neither hurried nor abashed, she -came in her virgin calm, her virgin paleness. But as they stood for -one moment at the foot of the orchestra, he paused, arrested her, his -hand was raised; and in a moment, with a smile whose tenderness for -that moment triumphed, he had placed the silver rose in her dark hair, -where it glistened, an angelic symbol to the recognition of every one -present. She did not smile in return, nor raise her eyes, but mounted -instantly and stood amidst us. - -I had no idea, until, indeed, she stood there, a girl amidst -us,--until she appeared in that light of which she herself was -light,--how very small she was, how slightly framed; every emotion was -articulated by the fragility of her form as she stirred so calmly, -silently. The bright afternoon from many windows poured upon the -polish of her forehead, so arched, so eminent; but, alas! upon the -languors also that had woven their awful mists around her eyes. Her -softly curling lips spoke nothing now but the language of sleep in -infancy, so gently parted, but not as in inspiration. As she raised -that arm so calmly, and the first movement came upon me, I could not -yet regard her, nor until a rest occurred. Then I saw her the same -again, except that her eyes were filled with tears, and over all her -face that there was a shadow playing as from some sweeping solemn -wing, like the imagery of summer leaves that trembles upon a moonlit -grass. - -Only once I heard that music, but I do not remember it, nor can call -upon myself to describe it. I only know that while in the full -thrilling tide of that first movement I was not aware of playing, or -how I played, though very conscious of the weight upon my heart and -upon every instrument. Even Anastase, next whom I stood, was not -himself in playing. I cannot tell whether the conductress were herself -unsteady, but she unnerved us all, or something too near unnerved -us,--we were noiselessly preparing for that which was at hand. - -At the close of the movement a rushing cadence of ultimate rapidity -broke from the stringed force, but the wind flowed in upon the final -chords; they waned, they expanded, and at the simultaneous pause she -also paused. Then strangely, suddenly, her arm fell powerless, her -paleness quickened to crimson, her brow grew warm with a bursting -blood-red blush,--she sank to the floor upon her side silently as in -the south wind a leaf just flutters and is at rest; nor was there a -sound through the stricken orchestra as Florimond raised her and -carried her from us in his arms. - -None moved beside, except the Chevalier, who, with a gaze that was as -of one suddenly blinded, followed Anastase instantaneously. We -remained as we stood, in a suspense that I, for one, could never have -broken. Poor Florimond's violin lay shattered upon the floor, the -strings shivered, and yet shuddering; the rose lay also low. None -gathered either up, none stirred, nor any brought us word. I believe I -should never have moved again if Delemann, in his living kindness, had -not sped from us at last. - -He, too, was long away,--long, long to return; nor did he, in -returning, re-enter the orchestra. He beckoned to me from the screen -of the antechamber. I met him amidst the glorious garlands, but I made -way to him I know not how. That room was deserted also, and all who -had been there had gone. Whither? Oh! where might they now remain? -Franz whispered to me, and of his few, sad words--half hope, half -fear, all anguish--I cannot repeat the echo. But it is sufficient for -all to remind myself how soon the hope had faded, after few, not many -days; how the fear passed with it, but not alone. Yet, whatever -passed, whatever faded, left us love forever,--love, with its dear -regrets, its infinite expectations! - -FOOTNOTE: - -[6] The Bacchus of Music. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Twelve years of after-life cannot but weigh lighter in the balance of -recollection than half that number in very early youth. I think this -now, pondering upon the threshold of middle age with an enthusiasm -fixed and deepened by every change; but I did not think so the day to -which I shall defer my particular remembrances,--the day I had left -Germany forever,--except in dreams. There were other things I might -have left behind that now I carried to my home,--things themselves all -dreams, yet containing in their reminiscences the symbols of my every -reality. Eternity alone could contain the substance of those shadows; -that shore we deem itself to shadow, alone contains the resolution -into glory of all our longings, into peace of all our pain. - -Such feelings, engendered by loneliness, took me by the very hand and -led me forwards that dreary December evening when I landed in England -last, having obtained all that was absolutely necessary to be made my -own abroad. - -I have not tormented my reader or two with the most insignificant -mention of myself between this evening and a time some years before; -it would have been impracticable, or, if practicable, impertinent, as -I lived those after years entirely within and to myself. The sudden -desertion which had stricken Cecilia of her hero lord, and that -suspension of his presence which ensued, had no more power upon me -than to call out what was, indeed, demanded of me under such -circumstances,--all the persistency of my nature. And if even there -had been a complete and actual surrender of all her privileges by -professors and pupils, I should have been the last to be found there, -and I think that I should have played to the very empty halls until -ruin hungered for them and we had fallen together. As it happened, -however, my solitude was more actual than any I could have provided -for myself; my spirit retreated, and to music alone remained either -master or slave. - -The very representative of music was no longer such to me; for when we -came together after that fatal midsummer no sign was left of -Anastase,--"a new king had arisen in Egypt, who knew not Joseph." To -him I ought, perhaps, to confess that I owed a good deal, but I cannot -believe it,--I am fain to think I should have done as well alone; but -there was that in the association and habitude of the place, that in -the knowledge of being still under the superintendence, however formal -and abstracted, of its head, that I could not, and would not, have -flung up the chances of its academical career. - -It was, however, no effort to disengage myself from the spot, for any -notion of the presence of him I best loved was, alas! now, and had -been long, entirely dissociated from it. Not one smile from those fair -lips, not one ray from those awful eyes, had sunned the countenances -of the ever-studious throng. A monastery could not have been more -secluded from the incarnate presence of the Deity than were we in that -quiet institution from its distant director. - -Let it not be imagined, at the same time, that we could have existed -in ignorance of that influence which was streaming--an "eastern -star"--through the country that contained him as a light of life, -which in the few fleeting years of my boyhood had garnered such -illustrious immortality for one scarcely past his own first youth. But -in leaving Germany I was leaving neither the name nor the fame of -Seraphael, except to meet them again where they were dearer yet and -brighter than in their cradle-land. - -None could estimate--and, young as I yet was, I well knew it--the -proportion of the renown his early works had gained in this strange -country. The noblest attribute of race, the irresistible conception of -the power of race, had scarcely then received a remote encouragement, -though physiologists abounded; but, like our artists, they lacked an -ideal, or, like our politicians, "a man." - -Still, whether people knew it or not, they insensibly worshipped the -perfect beauty whose development was itself music, and whose -organization, matchless and sublimated, was but the purest type of -that human nature on which the Divine One placed his signet, and which -he instituted by sharing, the nearest to his own. Those who did know -it, denied it in the face of their rational conviction, because it was -so hard to allow that to be a special privilege in which they can bear -no earthly part; for all the races of the earth cannot tread down one -step of that race, nor diminish in each millennium its spiritual -approximation to an everlasting endurance. Or, perhaps, to do them -justice, the very conviction was as dark to them as that of death, -which all must hold, and so few care to remind themselves of. At all -events, it was yet a whisper--and a whisper not so universally wafted -as whispers in general are--that Seraphael was of unperverted Hebrew -ancestry, both recognizant of the fact and auspicious in its -entertainment. - -Many things affected me as changes when I landed at London Bridge, -for I had not been at home for three whole years, and was not prepared -to meet such changes, though aware of many in myself. - -I cannot allude to any now, except the railway, which was the first I -had seen, and whose line to our very town, almost to our very house, -had been not six months completed. I shall never forget the effect, -nor has it ever left me when I travel; I cannot find it monotonous, -nor anything but marvel. It was certainly evening when I entered the -stupendous terminus, and nothing could have so adapted itself to the -architecture as the black-gray gloom, lamp-strung, streaming with -gas-jets. - -Such gloom breathed deadly cold, presaging the white storm or the -icing wind; and it was the long drear line itself that drew my spirit -forth, as itself lonely to bask in loneliness, such weird, wild -insecurity seemed hovering upon the darkened distance, such a dream of -hopeless achievement seemed the space to be overpassed that awful -evening. As I walked along the carriage-line I felt this, although the -engine-fire glowed furiously, and it spit out sparks in bravery; but -the murmur of exhaustless power prevented my feeling in full force -what that power must really be. - -It was not until we rolled away and left the lamps in their ruddy sea -behind us, had lost ourselves far out in the dark country, had begun -to rush into the very arms of night, that I could even bear to -remember how little people had told me of what steam-travelling by -land would prove in my experience. It seemed to me as if I, too, ought -to have changed, and to carry wings; the spirit pined for an -enfranchisement of its own as peculiar, and recalled all painfully -that its pinings were in vain. - -A thousand chapters have been expended upon the delights of return to -home, and a thousand more will probably insure for themselves laudable -publicity. I should be an all-ungrateful wretch if I refused my single -_Ave_ at that olden shrine. I cannot quite forget, either, that none -of my wildest recollections out-dazzled its near brightness as I -approached; the poetic isolation of my late life, precious as it was -in itself, and inseparable from my choicest appreciation, seeming but -to enhance the genial sweetness of the reality in my reception. - -Long before I arrived in that familiar parlor a presence awaited me -which had ever appeared to stand between my actual and my ideal -world,--it was that of my brother and earliest friend, dear Lenhart -Davy, who had walked out into the winter night expressly and entirely -to meet me, and who was so completely unaged, unchanged, and unalloyed -that I could but wonder at the freshness of the life within him, until -I remembered the fountains where it fed. He was as bright, as earnest, -as in the days of my infant faith; but there was little to be said -until we arrived at home. - -Cold as was the season, and peculiarly susceptible as our family has -ever been to cold, the street-door positively stood ajar! and hiding -behind it was Margareth, oblivious of rheumatism and frost, to receive -her nursling. When she had pronounced upon my growth her enchanted -eulogy that I was taller than ever and more like myself, I was dragged -into the parlor by Davy, and found them all, the bloom of the -firelight restoring their faces exactly as I had left them. My mother, -as I told her, looked younger than myself,--which might easily be the -case, as I believe I was born grown up,--and Clo was very handsome in -her fashion, wearing the old pictorial raiment. My sister Lydia had -lately received preferment, and introduced me on the instant to her -prospects,--a gentlemanly individual upon the sofa, who had not even -concluded his college career, but was in full tilt for high -mathematical honors at that which I have heard called Oxford's rival, -but upon whose merit as a residence and Academe celestial I am not -competent to sit in judgment. - -These worthies dismissed, I was at liberty to spend myself upon the -most precious of the party. They were Millicent and her baby, which -last I had never seen,--a lady of eighteen months, kept thus late out -of her cradle that she, too, might greet her uncle. She was a -delicious child,--I have never found her equal,--and had that -indescribable rarity of appearance which belongs, or we imagine it to -belong, to an only one. Carlotta--so they had christened her after -unworthy me--was already calling upon my name, to the solemn ecstasy -of Davy, and his wife's less sustained gratification. - -I have never really seen such a sight as that sister and brother of -mine, with that only child of theirs. When we drew to the table, -gloriously spread for supper, and my mother, in one of her -old-fashioned agonies, implored for Carlotta to be taken upstairs, -Davy, perfectly heedless, brought her along with him to his chair, -placed on his knee and fed her, fostered her till she fell asleep and -tumbled against his shoulder, when he opened his coat-breast for her -and just let her sleep on,--calling no attention to her beauties in so -many words, certainly, but paying very little attention to anything -else; and at last, when we all retired, carrying her away with him -upstairs, where I heard him walking up and down his room, with a -hushing footstep, long after I had entered mine. - -It was not until the next morning that I was made fully aware of -Davy's position. After breakfast, as soon as the sun was high enough -to prepare the frosty atmosphere for the reception of the baby, I -returned with Millicent and himself to their own home. I had been -witness to certain improvements in that little droll house, but a -great deal more had been done since my last visit. - -For example, there was a room downstairs, built out, for the books, -which had accumulated too many; and over this room had Davy designed a -very sweet green-house, to be approached from the parlor itself. The -same order overlaid everything; the same perfume of cleanliness -permeated every corner; and it was just as well this was the case, so -jammed and choked up with all sorts of treasures and curiosities were -the little landing-place, the tiny drawing-room, the very bed-room and -_a half_, as Davy called my own little closet, with the little carven -bed's head. Everywhere his shadow, gliding and smiling silently, -though at the proper time she had plenty to say too, came Millicent -after him. Nor was the baby ever far behind; for at the utmost -distance might be glimpsed a nest of basket-work, lined with -blush-color, placed on a chair or two among the geraniums and myrtles, -and in that basket the baby lay; while her mamma, who only kept one -servant, made various useful and ornamental progresses through the -house. - -While Davy was at home, however, Carlotta was never out of his arms, -or, at least, off his lap; she had learned to lie quite quiescently -across his knees while he wrote or read, making no more disturbance -than a dove would have done. I believe he was half-jealous because -when I took her she did not cry, but began to put her fingers into my -eyes and to carry my own fingers to her mouth. This morning we had her -between us when we began to talk, and it was with his eyes upon her -that Davy first said,-- - -"Well, Charles, you have told me nothing of your plans yet; I suppose -they are hardly formed." - -"Oh, yes! quite formed,--at least as formed as they can be without -your sanction. You know what you wrote to me about,--your last -letter?" - -"You received that extemporaneous extravaganza, then, Charles,--which -I afterwards desired I had burned?" - -"I take that as especially unkind on your part, as I could not but -enter with the most eager interest into every line." - -"Not unkind, though I own it was a little cowardly. I felt rather awed -in submitting my ideas to you when you were at the very midst of music -in its most perfect exposition." - -"Oh! I did not quite discover that, Lenhart. There are imperfections -everywhere, and will be, in such a mixed multitude as of those who -press into the service of what is altogether perfect." - -"The old story, Charlie." - -"Rather the new one. I find it every day placed before me in a -stronger light; but it has not long held even with me. How very little -we can do, even at the utmost, and how very hard we must labor even to -do that little!" - -"I am thankful to hear you say so, Charles, coming fresh from the -severities of study; but we are some few of us in the same mind." - -"Then let us hold together; and this brings me to my purpose. I am not -going to settle in London, Lenhart,--that is a mistake of yours. I -will never leave you while I can be of any use." - -"Leave me, Charlie? Ah! would that I could cherish the possibility of -your remaining here! But with your power and your promise of success, -who would not blame those who should prevent your appearance in -London?" - -"I will never make my appearance anywhere, my dearest brother,--at -least not as you intend. I could have no objection to play anywhere if -I were wanted, and if any one cared to hear me; but I will never give -up the actual hold I have on this place. As much may be done here as -anywhere else, and more, I am certain, than in London. There is more -room here,--less strain and stress; and, once more, I will not leave -you." - -"But how, my Charlie,--in what sense?" - -"I will work along with you, and for you, while I work for myself. I -am young, very young, and, I daresay, very presumptuous in believing -myself equal to the task; but I should wish, besides being resident -professor, to devote myself especially to the organization of that -band of which you wrote, and which in your letter you gave me to -understand it is your desire to amalgamate with your class. You do not -see, Lenhart, that, young as I am, nothing could give me a position -like this, and that if I fail, I can but return to a less ambitious -course." - -"There is no course, Charles, that I do not consider you equal to; but -I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to bind you to a service so -signal for my own sake,--it is a mere sketch of a Spanish castle I had -reared in an idle hour." - -"We will raise a sure fame on solid foundations, Lenhart, and I do not -care about fame for its own sake. After all, you cannot, with your -musical electicism, prefer me to become mixed up in the horrible -struggle for precedence which, in London, degrades the very nature of -art, and renders its pursuit a misnomer." - -"You have not given up one of your old prejudices, Charles." - -"No, Davy. I feel we can do more acting together than either -separately, for the cause we love best and desire to serve. You know -me well, and that, whatever I have learned in my life abroad, no taste -is so dear to me as yours,--no judgment I should follow to the death -so gladly. Besides all the rest, which is made up of a good deal more -than one can say, I could never consent, as an instrumentalist, and as -holding that instrument to be part of myself, to infect my style with -whims and fashions which alone would render it generally acceptable. I -_must_ reserve what I musically believe as my musical expression, and -nothing can satisfy me in that respect but the development of the -orchestra." - -"Poor orchestra! it is a very germ, a winter-seed at present, my -ever-sanguine Charlie." - -"I am not sanguine; on the contrary, I am disposed to suspect -treachery everywhere, even in myself, and certainly in you, if you -would have me go to London, take fashionable lodgings, and starve -myself on popular precedents, among them that most magnificent one of -lionizing musical professors. No, I could not bear that, and no one -would care a whit for my playing as I _feel_. I should be starved out -and out. If you can initiate me a little yourself into your -proceedings, I think I shall be able to persuade you that I ought to -be only where my impulse directs me to remain." - -Davy at this juncture deprived me of the baby, who had been munching -my finger all the time we talked; and when he had placed her in her -nest,--a portent of vast significance,--he enlightened me indeed to -the full, and we informed Millicent when she came upstairs; for -nothing could be done without asking her accord. It was greatly to my -satisfaction that she entirely agreed with me, and a great relief to -Davy, who in the plenitude of his delicate pride could hardly bear the -thought of suggesting anything to anybody, lest his suggestion should -unsteady any fixed idea of their own. Millicent cordially asserted -that she felt there was a more interesting sphere about them than she -could imagine to exist anywhere else; and perhaps she was right, for -no one could sufficiently laud the extirpation of ancient prejudices -by Davy's firm voice and ardent heart. I could not possibly calculate -at that moment the force and extent of his singular efforts, and their -still more unwonted effects in so short a time made manifest. I heard -of these from Millicent, who could talk of nothing else, to me, at -least, after Davy, ever anxious, had left us for his morning's -lessons, which occupied him in private, though not much more than -formerly, as his peculiar attention and nearly his whole time were -devoted more determinately than ever to the instruction and elevation -of the vocal institution he had organized. - -"No one can tell, Charles," said Millicent, among other things, "how -heroically and patiently he has worked, rejecting all but the barest -remuneration, to bring all forward as he has succeeded in doing, and -has nobly done. You will say so when you hear, and you must hear, -to-morrow evening." - -"I shall indeed feel strange, Millicent," I replied, "to sit at his -feet once more, and to feel again all that went through me in the days -when I learned of him alone. But I am very curious about another -friend of mine. I suppose you can tell me just as well as he." - -"About Miss Benette, Charles?" - -"Yes, and also little Laura." - -"I know nothing; we know nothing of her or what she has been doing. -But you must have heard of Clara?" - -"Not a word. I have been very quiet, I assure you." - -"So much the better for you, Charles. But she has not lost your good -opinion?" - -"She would have that wherever she went." - -"I believe it. My husband has, of course, never lost sight of her; yet -it was not until the other day, and quite by accident, that we heard -of all she has become. A very old Italian stager, Stelli by name, -called on Lenhart the other day at the class, and after hearing -several of the pieces, asked him whether his pupil, Miss Benette, had -not belonged to it once on a time. He said, Yes; and finding that the -signor was acquainted with her, brought him home to dinner; and we -were told a great deal that it is very difficult to tell, even to you, -Charles. She must, however, be exactly what you always imagined." - -"I should not only imagine, but expect, she will remain unaltered. I -do not believe such eyes could change, or the owner of such eyes." - -"He says just so,--he says that she is an angel; he continued to call -her _angela_, _angela_, and could call her nothing else." - -"Is she singing in Italy just now?" - -"It is just that we asked him. You know she went to Italy for study, -and no one heard a word about her; she did not omit to write, but -never mentioned what she was doing. Only the third year she sent us -news of her _début_. This was but last May. The news was in a paper, -not in her letter. In her letter she only spoke of ourselves, and sent -us a present for baby,--such a piece of work, Charles, as you never -saw. I thought she would have quite given up work by that time. The -letter was a simple, exquisite expression of regard for her old -master; and when Lenhart answered it, she wrote again. _This_ letter -contained the most delicate intimation of her prosperous views. She -was entirely engaged at that time, but told us she trusted to come to -England an early month next year, for she says she finds, having been -to Italy, she loves England best." - -"That is rather what I should have expected. She had not an Italian -touch about her; she would weary there." - -"I should scarcely think so, Charles, for Stelli described her beauty -as something rose-like and healthful,--'fresher than your infant -there,' he said, pointing to baby; and from her style of singing grand -and sacred airs, she has been fancifully named, and is called -everywhere, 'La Benetta benedetta.'"[7] - -"That strikes home to me very pleasantly, Millicent. She had something -blessed and infantine in her very look. I admire that sobriquet; but -those usually bestowed by the populace are most unmeaning. Her own -name, however, suits her best,--it is limpid like the light in her -eyes. There is no word so apt as 'clear' for the expression of her -soul. And what, Millicent, of her voice and style?" - -"Something wonderful, no doubt, Charles, if she obtained an engagement -in the midst of such an operatic pressure as there was this year. I -hope she will do something for England too. We have not so many like -her that we can afford to lose her altogether." - -"I know of not one, Millicent; and shall, if it be my good fortune to -see her, persuade her not to desert us; but Lenhart will have more -chance." - -"La Benetta benedetta!" I could not forget it; it haunted me like the -words of some chosen song; I was ever singing it in my mind; it seemed -the most fitting, and the only not irreverent homage with which one -could have strewed the letters of her name,--a most successful -hieroglyph. Nor the less was I reminded of her when, on the following -evening, I accompanied my sister--who for once had allowed Clo to take -charge of her baby--to the place, now so altered since I left it, -where the vocal family united. We entered at the same door, we -approached the same room; but none could again have known it unless, -as in my case, he could have pointed out the exact spot on which he -had been accustomed to sit. The roof was raised, the rafters were -stained that favorite sylvan tint of Davy's, the windows lightly -pencilled with it upon their ground-glass arches, the walls painted -the softest shade of gray, harmonizing perfectly with the -purple-crimson tone of the cloth that covered seats and platform. -Alas! as I surveyed that platform I felt, with Davy, how much room -there was for increased and novel yet necessary organism in the -perfectibility of the system; for on that glowing void outspread, -where his slight, dark form and white face and _glancing_ hands alone -shone out, I could but dream of beholding the whole array, in -clustering companionship, of those mystic shapes that suggest to us, -in their varied yet according forms, the sounds that creep, that wind, -that pierce, that electrify, through parchment or brass or string. - -In a word, they wanted a band very much. It would not have signified -whether they had one or not, had the class continued in its primitive -position, and in which its enemies would have desired it to -remain,--an unprogressive mediocrity. But as it is the nature of true -art to be progressive ever, it is just as ignorant to expect -shortcomings of a true artist as it would be vain to look for ideal -success amongst the leaders of musical taste, neither endowed with -aspiration nor volition. Now, to hear those voices rise, prolong -themselves, lean in uncorrupted tone upon the calm motet, or rest in -unagitated simplicity over a pause of Ravenscroft's old heavenly -verses, made one almost leap to reduce such a host to the service of -an appropriate band, and to institute orchestral worship there. I -could but remind myself of certain great works, paradises of musical -creation, from whose rightful interpretation we are debarred either by -the inconsistency with the chosen band of the selected chorus, or by -the inequality of the band itself. It struck me that a perfect dream -might here be realized in full perfection, should my own capabilities, -at least, keep pace with the demand upon them, were I permitted to -take my part in Davy's plan as we had treated of it to each other. I -told him, as we walked home together, a little of my mind. He was in -as bright spirits as at his earliest manhood; it was a favorable -moment, and in the keen December moonlight we made a vow to stand by -each other then and ever. - -Delightful as was the task, and responsive to my inmost resolutions, -the final result I scarcely dared anticipate; it was no more easy at -first than to trace the source of such a river as the Nile. Many -difficulties darkened the way before me; and my own musical knowledge -seemed but as a light flung immediately out of my own soul, making the -narrow circle of a radiance for my feet that was unavailable for any -others. My position as Davy's brother-in-law gave me a certain hold -upon my pupils, but no one can imagine what suffering they weetlessly -imposed upon me. The number I began with, receiving each singly, not -at my own home, but in a hired room, was not more than eight, amateurs -and neophytes either,--the amateurs esteeming themselves no less than -amateurs, and something more; the neophytes chiefly connections of the -choral force, and of an individual stubbornness not altogether to be -appreciated at an early period. I could laugh to remember myself those -awful mornings when, after a breakfast at home which I could not have -touched had it been less delicately prepared, I used to repair to that -room of mine and await the advent of those gentlemen, all older than -myself except one, and he the most _presto_ in pretensions of the set. -The room was at the back and top of a house; and over the swinging -window-blind I could discern a rush now and then of a deep dark smoke, -and a wail, as of a demon sorely tried, would shrill along my nerves -as the train dashed by. The trains were my chief support during the -predominance of my ordeal,--they superinduced a sensation that was -neither of music nor of stolidity. - -After a month or two, however, dating from the first week of February, -when, together with the outpeering of the first snowdrop from the -frost, I assumed my dignities, I discovered that I had gained a -certain standing, owing to the fact of my being aware what I was -about, and always attending to the matter in hand. Of my senior -pupils, one was immensely conversable, so conversable that until he -had disgorged himself of a certain quantity of chat, it was impossible -to induce him to take up his bow; another contemplative, so -contemplative that I always had to unpack his instrument for him, and -to send it after him when he was gone, in a general way; a third so -deficient in natural musicality that he did not like my playing! and -soon put up for a vacant oboe in the band of the local theatre, and -left me in the lurch. But desperately irate with them as I was, and -almost disgusted with my petty efforts, I made no show of either to -Davy, nor did they affect my intentions nor stagger my fixed -assurance. All my experiences were hoarded and husbanded by me to such -purpose on my own account that I advanced myself in exact proportion -to the calm _statu quo_ in which remained at present my orchestral -nucleus. My patience was rewarded, however, before I could have dared -to hope, by a steady increase of patronage during April and May,--in -fact, I had so much to do in the eight weeks of those two months that -my mother declared I was working too hard, and projected a trip for me -somewhere. Bless her ever benignant heart! she always held that -everybody, no matter who, and no matter what they had to do, should -recreate during three months out of every twelve! How my family, all -celebrated as they were for nerves of salient self-assertion, endured -my home-necessary practice, I cannot divine; but they one and all made -light of it, even declaring they scarcely heard that all-penetrating -sound distilled down the staircase and through closed parlor doors. -But I was obliged to keep in my own hand most vigorously, and -sustained myself by the hope that I should one day lead off my -dependants in the region now made sacred by voice and verse alone. It -was my habit to give no lessons after dinner, but to pursue my own -studies, sadly deficient as I was in too many respects, in the long -afternoons of spring, and to walk in the lengthening evenings, more -delicious in my remembrance than any of my boyish treasure-times. On -class-nights I would walk to Davy's, find him in a paroxysm of -anxiety just gone off, leaving Millicent to bemoan his want of -appetite and to devise elegant but inexpensive suppers. I would have -one good night-game with my soft-lipped niece, watch her mamma -unswathe the cambric from her rosy limbs, see the white lids drop -their lashes over her blue eyes' sleepfulness, listen to the breath -that arose like the pulses of a flower to the air, feel her sweetness -make me almost sad, and creep downstairs most noiselessly. Millicent -would follow me to fetch her work-basket from the little conservatory, -would talk a moment before she returned upstairs to work by the -cradle-side, would steal with me to the door, look up to the stars or -the moon a moment, and heave a sigh,--a sigh as from happiness too -large for heart to hold; and I, having picked my path around the -narrow gravel, smelling the fresh mould in the darkness, having -reached the gate, would just glance round to sign adieu; and not till -then would she withdraw into the warm little hall and close the door. -Then off I was to the class, to see the windows a-glow from the -street, to hear the choral glory greeting me in sounds like chastened -organ-tones, to mount, unquestioned, into the room, to find the -crimsoned seats all full, the crimson platform bare, save of that -quick, dark form and those gleaming hands. I sit down behind, and bask -luxuriously in that which, to me, is precious as "the sunshine to the -bee;" or I come down stoopingly a few steps, and taking the edge of a -bench where genial faces smile for me, I peep over the sheet of the -pale mechanic or rejoicing weaver, whose visage is drawn out of its -dread fatigue as by a celestial galvanism, and join in the psalm, or -mix my spirit in the soaring antiphon. Davy meets me afterwards; we -wait until everybody has passed out, we pack away the books, we turn -down the gas,--or at least a gentleman does, who appears to think it -an essential part of music that a supreme bustle should precede and -follow its celebrations, and who, locking the door after we attain the -street, tenders Davy the key in a perfect agony of courteous -patronage, and bows almost unto the earth. I accompany my brother -home, and Millicent and he and I sup together, the happiest trio in -the town. On other nights I sup at home, and after my walk, as I come -in earlier, and after I have given reports of Millicent and her spouse -and the baby,--also, whether it has been out this day (my mother -having a righteous prejudice against certain winds),--I sometimes play -to them such moving melodies as I fancy will touch them, but not too -deeply, and indulge in the lighter moods that music does not deny, -even to the uninitiated,--often trifling with my memory of old times as -they begin to seem to me, and, alas! have seemed many years already, -though I am young,--so young that I scarcely know yet how young I am. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[7] The blessed Benette. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -I was in the most contented frame of mind that can be conceived of -until the very May month of the year I speak of, when my sensations, -as usual, began to be peculiar. I don't think anybody can love summer -better than I do, can more approvedly languish out, by heavy-shaded -stream in an atmosphere all roses, the summer noons, can easier spend, -in _insomnie_ the lustrous moony nights. - -But May does something to me of which I am not aware during June and -July, or at the first delicate spring-time. When the laburnums rain -their gold, and the lilacs toss broad-bloomed their grape-like -clusters, when the leaves, full swelling, are yet all veined with -light, I cannot very well work hard, and would rather slave the -livelong eleven months besides, to have that month a holiday. So it -happened now; and though I had no absolute right to leave my pupils -and desert the first stones of my musical masonry just laid and -smoothed, I was obliged to think that if I were to have a holiday at -all, I had better take it then. But I had not decided until I received -a double intimation,--one from Davy, and one from the county -newspaper, which last never chronicled events that stirred in London -unless they stirred beyond it. My joyous brother brought me the -letter, and the paper was upon our table the same morning when I came -down to breakfast. - -"See here, Charles," said Clo, who, sitting in her own corner, over -her own book, was unwontedly excited; "here is a piece of news for -you, and my mother found it first!" - -I read, in a castaway paragraph enough, that the Chevalier Seraphael, -the pianist and composer, was to pay a visit to England this very -summer; though to remain in strict seclusion, he would not be -inaccessible to professors. He brought with him, I learned, "the -fruits of several years' solitary travel, no doubt worthy of his -genius and peculiar industry." - -Extremely to the purpose were these expressions, for they told me all -I wanted to know,--that he was alive, must be himself again, and had -been writing for those who loved him,--for men and angels. Now, for my -letter. I had held it without opening it, for I chose to do so when -alone, and waited until after breakfast. It was a choice little -supplement to that choicest of all invites for my spirit and heart,--a -note on foreign paper; the graceful, firm character of the writing -found no difficulty to stand out clear and black from that -milk-and-water hue and spongy texture. It was from Clara,--a simple -form that a child might have dictated, yet containing certain business -reports for Davy, direct as from one who could master even business. - -She was coming definitely to England, not either for any purposes save -those all worthy of herself; she had accepted, after much -consideration, a London engagement for the season; and, said she,-- - -"I only have my fears lest I should do less than I ought for what I -love best; it is so difficult to do what is right by music in these -times, when it is fashionable to seem to like it. You will give me a -little of your advice, dear sir, if I need it, as perhaps I may; but -I hope not, because I have troubled you too much already. I trust -your little daughter is growing like you to please her mother, and -like her mother to please you. I shall be delighted to see it when I -come to London, if you can allow me to do so." - -The style of this end of a letter both amused and absorbed me; it was -Clara's very idiosyncrasy. I could but think, "Is it possible that she -has not altered more than her style of expressing herself has done? I -must go and see." - -Davy received my ravings with due compassion and more indulgence than -I had dared to hope. The suspension of my duties, leaving our -orchestra in limbo still longer, disconcerted him a little; but he was -the first to say I must surely go to London. The only thing to be -discovered was when to go, so as not to frustrate either one of my -designs or the other; and I declared he must, to that end, address -Clara on the very subject. - -He did so, and in a fortnight there came the coolest note to say she -would be in London the next day, and that she had heard the great -musician would arrive before the end of the month. I inly marvelled -whether in all the course of his wanderings Clara and the Chevalier -had met; but still I thought and prophesied not. I was really -reluctant to leave Davy with his hands and head full, that I might -saunter with my own in kid-gloves, and swarming with May fancies; but -for once my selfishness--or something higher, whose mortal frame is -selfishness--impelled me. I found myself in the train at the end of -the next week, carrying Clara's address in my memorandum-book, and my -violin-case in the carriage along with me. - -It was early afternoon, and exquisitely splendid weather when I -arrived in London. In London, however, I had little to do just then, -as the address of the house to which I was bound was rather out of -London,--above the smoke, beyond the stir, at the very first plunge -into the surrounding country that lingers yet as a dream upon her day -reality, with which dreams suit not ill, and from which they seldom -part. I love the heart of London, in whose awful deeps reflect the -mysterious unfathomable of every secret, and where the homeless are -best at home, where the home-bred fear not to wander, assured of sweet -return; but I do not love its immediate precincts,--the rude waking -stage between that profound and the conserved, untainted sylvan -vision, that, once overpast it, dawns upon us. - -Dashing as abruptly as possible, and by the nearest way through all -the brick wilderness outward, I reached in no long weary time, and by -no long weary journey, though on foot, a quiet road, which by a -continuous but gentle rise carried me to the clustered houses, neither -quite hamlet nor altogether village, where Miss Benette had hidden her -heart among the leaves. - -Cool and shady was the side I took, though the sunshine whitened the -highway, and every summer promise beamed from the soft sky's azure, -the green earth's bloom. The painted gates I met at intervals, or the -iron-wreathed portals, guarded dim walks, through whose perspective -villas glistened, all beautiful as they were discerned afar in their -frames of tossing creepers, with gay verandas or flashing -green-houses. But the wall I followed gave me not a transient glimpse -of gardens inwards, so thickly blazed the laburnums and the paler -flames of the rich acacia, not to speak of hedges all sweet-brier, -matted into one embrace with double-blossomed hawthorn. I passed -garden after garden and gate after gate, seeing no one; for the great -charm of those regions consists in the extreme privacy of every -habitation,--privacy which the most exclusive nobleman might envy, and -never excel in his wilderness parks or shrubberies; and when at length -I attained the summit of the elevation where two roads met and shut in -a sweep of actual country, and I came to the end of the houses, I -began to look about for some one to direct me; then, turning the -corner, I came in turning upon what I had been seeking, without having -really sought it by any effort. - -The turn in the road I speak of went tapering off between hedgerows; -and meadow-lands, as yet unencroached upon, swept within them as far -as I could see. But just where I stood, a cottage, older than any of -the villas, and framed in shade more ancient than the light groves I -left behind me, peeped from the golden and purple May-trees across a -moss-green lawn,--a perfect picture in its silence, and a very -paradise of fragrance. It was built of wood, and had its roof-hung -windows and drooping eaves protected by a spreading chestnut-tree, -whose great green fans beat coolness against every lattice, and whose -blossoms had kindled their rose-white tapers at the sun. The garden -was so full of flowers that one could scarcely bear the sweetness, -except that the cool chestnut shadow dashed the breeze with freshness -as it swept the heavy foliage and sank upon the checkered grass to a -swoon. I was not long lost in contemplating the niche my saint had -chosen, for I could have expected nothing fitter; but I was at some -loss to enter, for the reminiscences of my childhood burdened me, and -I dreaded lest I should be deprived of anything I now held stored -within me, by a novel shock of being. I need not have feared. - -After waiting till I was ashamed, I opened the tiny gate and walked -across the grass, still soft with the mowing of the morning, to the -front door, where I pulled a little bell-handle half smothered in the -wreaths of monthly roses that were quivering and fluttering like pink -doves about the door and lower windows. This was as it should be, the -very door-bell dressed with flowers; but more as it should be, it was -that Thoné opened the door. I was almost ready to disappear again, but -that her manner was the most reassuring to troublesome nerves. She did -not appear to have any idea who I was, nor did she even stare when I -presented my card, but like some strange bronze escaped from its -pedestal, and attired in muslin, she conducted me onwards down a -little low hall, half filled with the brightest plants, into a double -parlor, whose folding-doors were closed, and whose diamond-paned back -window looked out far, and very far, into the country. - -Hearing not a voice in the next room, nor any rustle, nor even a soft -foot hastily cross the beamed ceiling overhead, I dared look about me -for a moment, hid my hat in confusion under a chair, saw that the -round table had a bowl of flowers in its centre, caught sight of my -face in the intensely polished glass-door of a small closed book-case, -and, as if detected in some act, walked away to the window. - -I could not have done a better thing to prepare myself for any fresh -excitement; I was ready in an instant to weep with joy at the beauty -that flooded my spirit. Over and beyond the garden I gazed; it did not -detain my eye,--I passed its tree-tops, all apple-bloom and lilac, and -its sudden bursts of grass where the tree-tops parted. I looked out to -the country,--an undulating country, a sea of green, flushed here and -there with a bloomy level, or a breeze upon the crimson clover; -odorous bean-fields quivered, and their scent was floating -everywhere,--it drowned the very garden sweetness, and blended in with -waftures of unknown fragrance, all wild essences shed from woodbines, -from dog-roses, and the new-cut grass, or plumy meadow-sweet, by the -waters of rills flowing up into the distance, silver in the sunlight. -Soft hills against the heaven swept over visionary valleys; the -sunshine lay white and warm upon glistening summer seas and picture -cottages; over all spread the purple, melting, brooding sky, -transparent on every leaf and blossom, shining upon those tender -sloping hills with an amethyst haze of light, not shade. - -As I stood, the things that seemed had never been, and the things that -had been grew dilated and indefinitely bright,--the soft thrall of the -suspense that bound me intertwining itself with mine "electric chain" -as that May-dream mixed itself with all my music, veiling it as -moonlight, the colors of the flowers, or as music itself veils -passion. - -I waited quite half an hour, and had lost myself completely, feeling -as if no change could come, when, without a sound, some one entered -behind me. I knew it by the light that burst through the folding-door, -which had, however, again closed when I turned, for the tread was so -silent I might otherwise have gone dreaming on. Clara stood before me, -so little altered that I could have imagined that she had been put -away in a trance when I left her last, and but this instant was -restored to me. - -She was not more womanly, nor less child-like; and for her being an -actress, it seemed a thing impossible. I could but stand and gaze; nor -did she seem surprised, nor did her eyes droop, nor her fair cheek -mantle: through the untrembling lashes I caught the crystal light as -she opposed me, still waiting for me to speak. - -I was heartily ashamed at last, and resolved to make her welcome as -she maintained that strange regard. I put out my hand, and in an -instant she greeted me; the infantine smile shone suddenly that had -soothed me so long ago. - -"I am very glad to see you, Miss Benette. It was very kind of you to -let me come." - -"By no means," she replied, with the slightest possible Italian -softening of her accent. "I am very much obliged to you, and I am very -pleased also. Please sit down, sir, for you have been standing, I am -afraid, a long time. I was out at first, and since I returned I made -haste; but still, I fear, I have kept you waiting." - -"I could have waited all day, Miss Benette, to see such a window as -this. How did you manage to put your foot into such a nest?" - -"It is a very sweet little place, and the country is most beautiful. I -don't know what they mean by its being too near London. I must be near -London, and yet I could not exactly live in it, for it makes me idle." - -"How very strange! It has the same effect upon me,--that is to say, I -always dream in those streets, and lose half my purpose. Still, it -must be almost a temptation to indulge a certain kind of idleness -here; in such a garden as that, for example, one could pass all one's -time." - -"I do pass half my time in the garden, and yet I do not think it is -too much, for it makes me well; and I cannot work when I am not -well,--I was always unfortunate in that respect." - -"How do you think I look, by the by, Miss Benette? Am I very much -changed? It is perhaps, however, not a safe question." - -"Quite safe, sir. You have grown more and more like your inseparable -companion,--you always had a look of it, and now it takes the place of -all other expression." - -"I don't know whether that is complimentary or not, you see, for I -never heard your opinion in old times. I was a very silly boy then, -and not quite so well aware of what I owed to you as I may be now." - -"I do not feel that you owe anything to anybody, Mr. Auchester, for -you would have gone to your own desires as resolutely through peril as -through pleasure; at all events, if you are still as modest as you -were, it is a great blessing now you have become a soul which bears so -great a part. If I must speak truth, however, about your looks, you -seem as delicate as you used to be, and I do not suppose you could be -anything else. You have not altered except to have grown up." - -"And you, if I may say so, have not altered in growing up." - -Nor had she. She had not gained an inch in height. She could never -have worn that black silk frock those years; yet the folds, so grave -and costly, still shielded her gentle breast to meet the snow-soft -ruffle that fringed her throat: nor had she ornament upon -her,--neither bracelet nor ring upon the dimpled hands, the delicate -wrists. Though her silken hair had lengthened into wreaths upon -wreaths behind, she still preserved those baby-curls upon her temples, -nor had a shade more majesty gathered to her brow,--the regal -innocence was throned there, and looked forth from her eyes as from a -shrine; but it was evident that there was nothing about her from head -to foot on which she piqued herself,--a rare shortcoming of feminine -maturity. The only perceptible difference in the face was when she -spoke or smiled; and then the change, the deepened sweetness, can be -no more given to description than the notion of music to the destitute -ear. It was something of a reserve too inward to be approached, and -too subtile to subdue its own influence,--like perfume from unseen -flowers diffusing itself when the wind awakens, while we know neither -whence the windy fragrance comes nor whither it flows. - -"Is it possible, Miss Benette," I continued,--for I forced myself -absolutely to speak; I should so infinitely have preferred to watch -her silently,--"that you can have passed through so much since I saw -you?" - -"No, I have lived a very quiet life; it is you who have lived in all -the stir until you fancy there is not any calm at all." - -"I should have certainly found calm here. But you, I thought, and -indeed I know, have had every kind of excitement ready made to your -hand, and only waiting for you to touch the springs." - -"I have had no excitement till I came here." - -"None? Why, who could have had more, and who could have borne the same -so bravely? We have heard of you here, and it must have been a -transcending tempest for the shock to echo so far." - -"I do not call singing in theatres, and acting, excitement. I always -felt cool and collected in them, for I knew they were not real, and -that I should get through them soon, and very glad should I be; so I -was patient and did my best. You look at me shocked. I knew I should -shock you after all our talk." - -"Oh, fie! Miss Benette, to talk so, then, and to shock yourself, as -you must, if you are faithless." - -"Poor I, faithless! Well, I am not important enough for it to signify. -And yet I should like to tell you what I mean, because you were always -kind to me, and I should not wish you to despise me now. No, Mr. -Auchester, I am not faithless; I love music more and more; it is the -form of my religion; I dare to call it altogether holy,--I am sure, -indeed, it must be so, or it would have been trodden long ago into -nothing with the evil they have heaped over it to hide it, and the -mistakes they have made about it. I act and I sing, because that is -what I can do best; but my idea of music goes with yours, and -therefore I am not excited as I should be, if I were filling up a -place such as that which you fill; though I would not leave my own for -any consideration, and hope to continue in it. My excitement since I -came here, where most ladies would be dull or sick, has arisen from -the feeling that I am brought into contact with what is most like -music, as I always find solitude, and also because since I came I have -been raised higher by several spirits which are lofty in their -desires, instead of being dragged through a mass of all opinions as I -was abroad. My pleasures here are so great that I feel my soul to be -quite young again, and to grow younger; and you cannot fancy what it -is to return here after being in London, because you do not go to -London, and if you did go to London, you would not do as I do." - -She turned to me here, and told me it was her dinner-hour, asking me -to remain and dine with her. It was about two o'clock, and I hesitated -not to stay,--indeed, I know not that I could have gone. - -We arose together, and I led her forward. We crossed the hall to a -door beyond us, when, removing her little hand from my arm, and laying -it on the lock, she looked into my face and smiled. - -"You remembered me so well that I hope you will remember an old friend -of mine who is staying here with me." - -Before I could reply, or even marvel, she opened the door, and we -entered. The little dining-room was lined with warmer hues than the -airy drawing-room, but white muslin curtains made sails within the -crimson ones, and some person stood within these, lightly screened, -and looking out over the blind. - -"Laura," said Miss Benette, and she turned with exquisite elegance. -Had it not been for her name, which touched my memory, I could not -have remembered her,--certainly, at least, not then. - -Perhaps, when we were seated opposite at table, with nothing between -us but a vase of garden flowers, I might have made out her lineaments; -but I was called upon by my reminding chivalry to assist the hostess -in the dissection of spring chickens and roasted lamb, and there was -something besides about that very Laura I did not like to face until -she should at least speak and reveal herself, as by the voice one -cannot fail to do. - -However she spoke not, nor did Clara speak to her, though we two -talked a good deal,--that is to say, _I_ talked, as so it behooved me -to behave, and as I wished to see Miss Benette eat. When, at last, all -traces of the snowy damask were swept out by a pair of careful hands, -and we were left alone with the cut decanters, the early strawberries, -and sweet summer oranges, I did determine to look, for fear Miss -Lemark should think I did not dare to do so. I was not mistaken, as it -happened, in believing her to be quite capable of this construction, -as I discovered on regarding her immediately. - -Her childish nonchalance had ripened into a hauteur quite alarming; -for though she was scarcely my own age, she might have been ten years -older. Not that her form was not lithe,--lithe as it could be to be -endowed with the proper complement of muscles,--but for a certain -sharpness of outline her countenance would have been languid in -repose; her brow retained its singular breadth, but had not gained in -elevation; her eyes were large and lambent, fringed with lashes that -swept her cheek, though not darker than her hair, which waved as the -willow in slightly-turned tresses to her waist. That waist was so -extremely slight that it scarcely looked natural, and yet was entirely -so, as was evident from the way she moved in her clothes. - -She afforded a curious contrast to Clara in her black silk robe, for -she was dressed in muslin of the deepest rose-color, with an immense -skirt, its trimmings lace entirely, the sleeves dropped upon her arms, -which were loaded with bracelets of all kinds, while she wore a -splendid chain upon her neck. She bore this over effect very well, and -would not have become any other, it appeared to me, though there was -something faded in her appearance even then,--a want of color in her -aspect that demanded of costume the intensest contrasts. - -"You have very much grown, Miss Lemark," I ventured to say, after I -had contemplated her to my satisfaction. She had, indeed, grown; she -was taller than I. - -"So have you, Mr. Auchester." - -"She has grown in many respects, Mr. Auchester, which you cannot -imagine," said Clara, with a winning mischief in her glance. - -"I should imagine anything you pleased, I am afraid, Miss Benette, if -you inspired me. But I have been thinking it is a very curious thing -that we should meet in this way, we three alone, after meeting as we -did the first time in our lives." - -"It was rather different then," exclaimed Laura, all abruptly, "and -the difference is, not that we are grown up, but that when we met on -the first occasion, we told each other our minds, and now we don't -dare." - -"I am sure I dare," I retorted. - -"No, you would not, no more would Clara; perhaps I might, but it would -be of no use." - -"What did I say then that I dare not say now? I am sure I don't -remember." - -"You may remember," said Clara, smiling; "I think it is hardly fair to -make _her_ remind you." - -"It is my desert, if I remembered it first. You thought me very -vulgar, and you told me as much, though in more polite language." - -"If I thought so then, I may be allowed to have forgotten it now, Miss -Lemark, as I think your friend will grant, when I look at you." - -"You do not admire my style, Mr. Auchester; I know you,--it is -precisely against your taste. Even Clara does not approve of it, and -you have not half her forbearance,--if, indeed, you have any." - -"Nobody, Laura dear, would dispute that you can bear more dressing -than I can; it does not suit me to wear colors, and you look like a -flower in them. Does not that color suit her well, Mr. Auchester?" - -"Indeed I think so, and especially this glorious weather, when the -most vivid hues are starting out of every old stone. But Miss Lemark -could afford to wear green,--a very unusual suitability; it is the hue -of her eyes, I think." - -Laura had looked down, with that hauteur more fixed than ever now the -light of her eyes was lost; she drew in the corners of her mouth, and -turned a shade colder, if not paler, in complexion. I could not -imagine what she was thinking, till she said, without raising her -eyes,-- - -"You know, Clara, that is not the reason you wear black and I do not. -You know that you look well in anything, because nobody looks at -anything you happen to wear. Besides, there is a reason I could give -if I chose." - -"There is no other reason that you know of, Laura," she answered, and -then she asked me a question on quite another subject. - -I was rather anxious to discover whether Laura had fulfilled her -destiny as far as we had compassed ours; but I did not find it easy, -for she scarcely spoke, and had not lost a certain abstraction in her -air that alienated the observer insensibly from her. After dinner -Clara rose, and I made some demonstration of going, which she met so -that I could not refuse her invitation to remain at least an hour or -two. We all three retired into the little drawing-room; Miss Benette -placed me a chair in the open window which I had admired, and herself -sat down opposite, easily as a child, and saying, "I will not be rude -to-day, as I used to be, in taking out my work whenever you came." - -"It suited you very well, however, and I perceive, by your kind -present to my little niece, that you have not forgotten that delicate -art of yours." - -"I had laid it aside, except to work for babies, some time, but it was -long since I had a baby to work for; and when Mr. Davy sent me word in -such joy that his little girl was born, I was so rejoiced to be able -to make caps and frocks." - -"My sister was very much obliged to you on a former occasion too, Miss -Benette." - -"Yes, I suppose she was very much obliged that I did not accept Mr. -Davy's hand, or would have been, only she did not know it!" - -"I did not mean so. I was remembering whose handiwork graced her on -her marriage-day." - -"Oh! I forgot the veil. I have made several since that one, but not -one like that exactly, because I desired that should be unique. You -have not told me, Mr. Auchester, anything about Seraphael and his -works." - -I was so used to call him, and to hear him called, the Chevalier, that -at first I started, but was soon in a deep monologue of all that had -happened to me in connection with him and his music, only suppressing -that which I was in the habit of reserving, even in my own mind, from -my conscious self. In the midst of my relation, Laura, apparently -uninterested, as she had been seated in a chair with a book in her -hands, left the room, and we stayed in our talk and looked at each -other at the same instant. - -"Why do you look so, Mr. Auchester?" said Clara, half amused, but with -a touch of perturbation too. - -"I was expecting to be asked what I thought of that young lady, and -you see I was agreeably disappointed, for you are too well-bred to -ask." - -"No such thing. I thought you would tell me yourself if you liked, but -that you might prefer not to do so, because you are not one, sir, to -assume critical airs over a person you have only seen a very few -hours." - -"You do me more than justice, Miss Benette. But though I despair of -ever curing myself of the disposition to criticise, I am not -inconvertible. I admire Miss Lemark; she is improved, she is -distinguished,--a little more, and she would be lady-like." - -"I thought 'lady-like' meant less than 'distinguished.' You make it -mean more." - -"Perhaps I do mean that Miss Lemark is not exactly like yourself, and -that when she has lived with you a little longer, she will be indeed -all that she can be made." - -"That would be foolish to say so,--pardon!--for she has lived with me -two years now, and has most likely taken as much from me by imitation -as she ever will, or by what you perhaps would call sympathy." - -"I find, or should fancy I might find, to exist a great dissympathy -between you." - -"I suppose 'dissympathy' is one of those nice little German words that -are used to express what nobody ought to say. I thought you would not -go there for nothing. If your dissympathy means not to agree in -sentiment, I do not know that any two bodies could agree quite in -feeling, nor would it be so pleasant as to be alone in some moods. I -should be very sorry never to be able to retreat into the cool shade, -and know that, as I troubled nobody, so nobody could get at me. Would -not you?" - -"Oh! I suppose so, in the sense you mean. But how is it I have not -heard of this grace, or muse, taking leave to furl her wings at your -nest? I should have thought that Davy would have known." - -"Should I tell Mr. Davy what I pay to Thoné for keeping my house in -order,--or whether I went to church on a Sunday? Laura and I always -agreed to live together, but we could not accomplish it until -lately,--I mean, since I was in Italy. We met then, as we said we -would. I carried her from Paris, where she was alone with every one -but those who should have befriended her; her father had died, and she -was living with Mademoiselle Margondret,--that person I did not like -when I was young. If I had known where Laura was, I should have -fetched her away before." - -I felt for a moment as if I wished that Laura had never been born, but -only for one moment. I then resumed,-- - -"Does she not dance in London? She looks just ready for it." - -"She has accepted no engagement for this season at present. I cannot -tell what she may do, however. Would you like to see my garden, Mr. -Auchester?" - -"Indeed, I should very particularly like to see it, above all, if you -will condescend to accompany me. There is a great deal more that I -cannot help wishing for, Miss Benette; but I scarcely like to dream of -asking about it to-night." - -"For me to sing? Oh! I will sing for you any time, but I would -certainly rather talk to you,--at least until the beautiful day begins -to go; and it is all bright yet." - -She walked before me without her bonnet down the winding garden-steps; -the trellised balustrade was lost in rose-wreaths. We were soon in the -rustling air, among the flowers that had not a withered petal, -bursting hour by hour. - -"It would tease you to carry flowers, Mr. Auchester, or I should be -tempted to gather a nosegay for you to take back to London. I cannot -leave them alone while they are so fresh, and they quite ask to be -gathered. Look at all the buds upon this bush,--you could not count -them." - -"They are Provence roses. What a quantity you have!" - -"Thoné chose this cottage for me because of the number of the flowers. -I believe she thinks there is some charm in flowers which will prevent -my becoming wicked! If you had been so kind as to bring your violin, I -would have filled up the case with roses, and then you would not have -had to carry them in your hands." - -"But may I not have some, although I did not bring my violin? I never -think of anything but violets, though, for strewing that sarcophagus." - -"Sarcophagus means 'tomb,' does it not? It is a fine idea of -resurrection, when you take out the sleeping music and make it live. I -know what you mean about violets,--their perfume is like the tones of -your instrument, and one can separate it from all other scents in the -spring, as those tones from all other tones of the orchestra." - -"I have a tender thought for violets,--a very sad one, Miss Benette; -but still sweet now that what I remember has happened a long while -ago." - -"That is the best of sorrow,--all passes off with time but that which -is not bitter, though we can hardly call it sweet. I am grieved I -talked of violets, to touch upon any sorrow you may have had to bear; -still more grieved that you have had a sorrow, for you are very -young." - -"I seem to feel, Miss Benette, as if you must know exactly what I have -gone through since I saw you, and I am forced to remember it is not -the case. I am not sorry you spoke about violets, or rather that I -did, because some day I must tell you the whole story of my trouble. I -know not why the violet should remind me more than does the beautiful -white flower upon that rose-bush over there, for I have in my -possession both a white rose that has lived five summers, and an -everlasting violet which will never allow me to forget." - -"I know, from your look, that it is about some one dying: but why is -that so sad? We must all die, Mr. Auchester, and cannot stay after we -have been called." - -"It may be so, and must indeed; but it was hard to understand, and I -cannot now read why a creature so formed to teach earth all that is -most like heaven, should go before any one had dreamed she could -possibly be taken; for she had so much to do. You would not wonder at -the regret I must ever feel, if you had also known her." - -Clara had led me onwards as I spoke, and we stood before that -rose-tree; she broke off a fresh rose quietly, and placed it in my -hand. - -"I am more and more unhappy. It was not because I was not sorry that I -said so. Pray tell me about her." - -"She was very young, Miss Benette, only sixteen; and more beautiful -than any flower in this garden, or than any star in the sky; for it -was a beauty of spirit, of passion, of awful imagination. She was at -school with me, and I was taught by her how slightly I had learned all -things; she had learned too much, and of what men could not teach her. -I never saw such a face,--but that was nothing. I never heard such a -voice,--but neither had it any power, compared with her heavenly -genius and its sway upon the soul. She had written a symphony,--you -know what it is to do that! She wrote it in three months, and during -the slight leisure of a most laborious student life. I was alarmed at -her progress, yet there was something about it that made it seem -natural. She was ill once, but got over the attack; and the time came -when this strange girl was to stand in the light of an orchestra and -command its interpretation. It was a private performance, but I was -among the players. She did not carry it through. In the very midst she -fell to the ground, overwhelmed by illness. We thought her dead then, -but she lived four days." - -"And died, sir? Oh! she did not die?" - -"Yes, Miss Benette, she died; but no one then could have wished her to -live." - -"She suffered so?" - -"No, she was only too happy. I did not know what joy could rise to -until I beheld her face with the pain all passed, and saw her smile in -dying." - -"She must have been happy, then. Perhaps she had nothing she loved -except Jehovah, and no home but heaven." - -"Indeed, she must have been happy, for she left some one behind her -who had been to her so dear as to make her promise to become his own." - -"I am glad she was so wise, then, as to hide from him that she broke -her heart to part with him; for she could not help it: and it was -worthy of a young girl who could write a symphony," said Clara, very -calmly, but with her eyes closed among the flowers she was holding in -her hand. "Sir, what did they do with the symphony? and, if it is not -rude, what did the rose and the violet have to do with this sad tale?" - -"Oh! I should have told you first, but I wished to get the worst part -over; I do not generally tell people. It was the day our prizes were -distributed she took her death-blow, and I received from the Chevalier -Seraphael, who superintended all our affairs, and who ordered the -rewards, a breast-pin, with a violet in amethyst, in memory of certain -words he spoke to me in a rather mystical chat we had held one day, in -which he let fall, 'the violin is the violet.' And poor Maria received -a silver rose, in memory of Saint Cecilia, to whom he had once -compared her, and to whom there was a too true resemblance in her -fateful life. The rose was placed in her hair by the person I told you -she loved best, just as she was about to stand forth before the -orchestra; and when she fainted it fell to my feet. I gathered it up, -and have kept it ever since. I do not know whether I had any right to -do so, but the only person to whom I could have committed it, it was -impossible to insult by reminding of her. In fact, he would not permit -it; he left Cecilia after she was buried, and never returned." - -Clara here raised her eyes, bright and liquid, and yet all-searching; -I had not seen them so. - -"I feel for him all that my heart can feel. Has he never ceased to -suffer? Was she all to him?" - -"He will never cease to suffer until he ceases to breathe, and then he -will, perhaps, be fit to bear the bliss that was withdrawn from him as -too great for any mortal heart; that is his feeling, I believe, for he -is still now, and uncomplaining,--ever proud, but only proud about his -sorrow. Some day you will, I trust, hear him play, and you will agree -with me how that grief must have grown into a soul so passionate." - -"You mean, when you say he is proud, he will not be comforted, I -suppose? There are persons like that, I know; but I do not understand -it." - -"I hope you never will, Miss Benette. You must suffer with your whole -nature to refuse comfort." - -"To any one so suffering I should say, the comfort is that all those -who suffer are reserved for joy." - -"Not here, though." - -"But it will not be less joy because it is saved for by and by. Now -that way of talking makes me angry; I believe there is very little -faith." - -"Very little, I grant. But poor Florimond Anastase does not fail -there." - -She stopped beside me as we were pacing the lawn. - -"Florimond Anastase! you did not say so? Do you mean the great player? -I have heard of that person." - -Her face flushed vividly, as rose hues flowing into pearl, her aspect -altered, she seemed convicted of some mistaken conclusion; but, -recovering herself almost instantly, resumed,-- - -"Thank you for telling me that story,--it will make me better, I hope. -I do not deserve to have grown up so well and strong. May I do my duty -for it, and at least be grateful! You did not say what was done with -the symphony?" - -"The person I mentioned would not allow it to be retained. And, -indeed, what else could be done? It was buried in her virgin grave,--a -maiden work. She sleeps with her music, and I know not who could have -divided them." - -"You have told me a story that has turned you all over, like the -feeling before a thunder-storm. I will not hear a word more. You -cannot afford to talk of what affects you. Now, let me be very -impertinent and change the key." - -"By all means; I have said quite enough, and will thank you." - -"There is Laura in the arbor, just across the grass; we will go to -her, if you please, and you shall see her pretty pink frock among the -roses, instead of my black gown. On the way I will tell you that there -is some one, a lady too, so much interested in you that she was going -down to your neighborhood on purpose to find out about you; but I -prevented her from coming, by saying you would be here, and she -answered,-- - -"'Tell him, then, to come and call upon me.'" - -"It can only have been one living lady who would have sent that -message,--Miss Lawrence. Actually I had forgotten all about her, and -she returns upon me with a strong sense of my own ingratitude. I will -certainly call upon her, and I shall be only too glad to identify my -benefactress." - -"That you cannot do; she will not allow it,--at least, to this hour -she persists in perfect innocence of the fact." - -"That she provided us both with exactly what we wanted at exactly the -right time? She chalked out my career, at least. I'll make her -understand how I feel. Is she not a character?" - -"Not more so than yourself, but still one, certainly; and a -peculiarity of hers is, that generous--too generous almost--as she is, -she will not suffer the slightest allusion to her generosities to be -made, nor hint to be circulated that she has a heart at all." - -Laura was sitting in the arbor, which was now at hand, but not, as -Clara prophesied, among the roses in any sense, for the green branches -that festooned the lattice were flowerless until the later summer, and -her face appeared fading into a mist of green. The delicate leaves -framed her as a picture of melancholy that has attired itself in -mirth, which mirth but served to fling out the shadow by contrast and -betray the source. Clara sat on one side, I on the other, and -presently we went in to tea. But I did not hear the voice I longed for -that evening, nor was the pianoforte opened that I so well remembered -standing in its "dark corner." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -I determined not to let a day pass without calling on Miss Lawrence, -for I had obtained her address before I left the cottage, and I set -forth the following morning. It was in the midst of a desert of -West-end houses, none of which have any peculiar characteristic, or -suggest any peculiar notion. When I reached the door, I knocked, and -it being opened, gave in my card to the footman, who showed me into a -dining-room void of inhabitants, and there left me. - -It seemed strange enough to my perception, after I could sit down to -breathe, that a lady should live all by herself in such an immense -place; but I corrected myself by remembering she might possibly not -live by herself, but have brothers, sisters, nay, any number of -relations or dependants. She certainly did not dine in that great -room, at that long table polished as a looking-glass, where half a -regiment might have messed for change. There were heavy curtains, -striped blue and crimson, and a noble sideboard framed in an arch of -yellow marble. - -The walls were decorated with deep-toned pictures on a ground almost -gold color; and I was fastened upon one I could not mistake as a -Murillo, when the footman returned, but only to show me out, for Miss -Lawrence was engaged. I was a little crestfallen, not conceitedly so, -but simply feeling I had better not have taken her at her word, and -retreated in some confusion. Returning very leisurely to my two -apartments near the Strand, and stopping very often on the way at -music or print shops, I did not arrive there for at least an hour, and -was amazed on my entrance to find a note, directed to myself, lying -upon the parlor table-cloth. - -I appealed to my landlady from the top of the kitchen stairs, and she -said a man in livery had left it, and was to call for an answer. I -read the same on the spot; it had no seal to break, but was twisted -backwards and forwards, and had this merit, that it was very difficult -to open. It was from Miss Lawrence, without any comment on my call, -but requesting my company that very evening to dinner, at the awful -hour of seven. Never having dined at seven o'clock in my existence, -nor even at six, I was lost in the prospect, and almost desired to -decline, but that I had no excuse of any kind on hand; and therefore -compelled myself to frame a polite assent, which I despatched, and -then sat down to practise. - -I made out to myself that she would certainly be alone, as she was the -very person to have fashionable habits on her own account, or at least -that she would be surrounded merely by the people belonging to her in -her home. But I was still unconfessedly nervous when I drew the door -after me and issued into the streets, precisely as the quarter chimes -had struck for seven, and while the streets still streamed with -daylight, and all was defined as at noon. - -When I entered the square so large and still, with its broad roads and -tranquil centre-piece of green, I was appalled to observe a carriage -or two, and flattered myself they were at another door; but they had -drawn up at the very front, alas! that I had visited in the morning. I -was compelled to advance, after having stood aside to permit a lady in -purple satin, and two younger ladies in white, to illustrate the -doorway in making their procession first. Then I came on, and was -rather surprised to find myself so well treated; for a gentleman out -of livery, in neater black clothes than a clergyman, deprived me of my -hat and showed me upstairs directly. It struck me very forcibly that -it was a very good thing my hair had the habit of staying upon my -forehead as it should do, and that I was not anxious to tie my -neck-handkerchief over again, as I was to be admitted into the -drawing-room _in statu quo_. - -I ascended. It was a well-staircase, whose great height was easy of -attainment from the exceeding lowness of the steps; stone, with a -narrow crimson centre-strip soft as thick-piled velvet. On the -landing-place was a brilliant globe of humming-birds, interspersed -with gem-like spars and many a moss-wreath. The drawing-room door was -opened for me before I had done looking; I walked straight in, and by -instinct straight up to the lady of the house, who as instantly met me -with a frank familiarity that differs from all other, and supersedes -the rarest courtesy. - -I had a vague idea that Miss Lawrence must have been married since I -saw her, so completely was she mistress of herself, and so easy was -her deportment,--not to speak of her dress, which was black lace, with -a single feather in her hair of the most vivid green; but unstudied as -very few costumes are, even of married women. She was still Miss -Lawrence, though, for some one addressed her by name,--a -broad-featured man behind her,--and she turned her head alone, and -answered him over her shoulder. - -She dismissed him very shortly, or sent him to some one else; for she -led me--as a queen might lead one of her knights, by her finger-tips, -small as a Spaniard's, upon the tips of my gloves, while she held her -own gloves in her other hand--to a gentleman upon the rug, a real -gentleman of the old school, to whom she introduced me simply as to -her father; and then she brought me back again to a low easy-chair, -out of a group of easy-chairs close by the piano, and herself sat down -quite near me, on the extreme corner of an immense embroidered -ottoman. - -"You see how it is, my dear Mr. Auchester," she began in her genial -voice,--"a dinner, which I should not have dreamed to annoy you with, -but for one party we expect. You have seen Seraphael, of course, and -the little Burney? Or perhaps not; they have been in town only two -days." - -I was about to express something rather beyond surprise, when a fresh -appearance at the door carried her away, and I could only watch the -green plume in despair as it waved away from me. To stifle my -sensations, I just glanced round the room; it was very large, but so -high and so apportioned that one felt no space to spare. - -The draperies, withdrawn for the sunset smile to enter, were of palest -sky-color, the walls of the palest blush, the tables in corners, the -chairs in clusters, the cabinets in niches, gilt and carven, were of -the deepest blue and crimson, upon a carpet of all imaginable hues, -like dashed flower-petals. Luxurious as was the furniture, in nothing -it offended even the calmest taste, and the choicest must have -lavished upon it a prodigal leisure. - -The pianoforte was a grand one, of dark and lustrous polish; its -stools were velvet; a large lamp, unlighted, with gold tracery over -its moon-like globe, issued from a branch in the wall immediately over -it, and harmonized with a circle of those same lamps above the centre -ottoman, and with the same upon the mantelshelf guarding a beautiful -French clock, and reflected in a sheet of perfect glass sweeping to -the ceiling. - -There were about five and twenty persons present, who seemed -multiplied, by their manner and their dresses, into thrice as many, -and who would have presented a formidable aspect but for the hopes -roused within me to a tremendous anticipation. Still I had time, -during the hum and peculiar rustle, to scrutinize the faces present. -There were none worth carrying away, except that shaded by the emerald -plume, and I followed it from chair to chair, fondly hoping it would -return to mine. It did not; and it was evident we were waiting for -some one. - -There was a general lull; two minutes by my watch (as I ascertained, -very improperly) it lasted, and two minutes seems very long before a -set dinner. Suddenly, while I was yet gazing after our hostess, the -door flew open, and I heard a voice repeat,-- - -"The Chevalier Seraphael and Mr. Burney!" - -They entered calmly, as I could hear,--not see, for my eyes seemed to -turn in my head, and I involuntarily looked away. The former -approached the hostess, who had advanced almost to the door to meet -him, and apologized, but very slightly, for his late appearance, -adding a few words in a lower tone which I could not catch. He was -still holding his companion by the hand, and, before they had time to -part, the dinner was announced with state. - -I lost sight of him long before I obeyed the summons, leading a lady -assigned to me, a head taller than myself, who held a handkerchief in -her hand that looked like a lace veil, and shook it in my face as we -walked down the stairs. I can never sympathize with the abuse heaped -upon these dinner-parties, as I have heard, since I recall that -especial occasion, not only grateful, but with a sense of its Arabian -Night-like charm,--the long table, glistering with damask too white -for the eye to endure, the shining silver, the flashing crystal, the -blaze and mitigated brightness, the pyramid of flowers, the fragrance, -and the picture quiet. - -As we passed in noiselessly and sat down one by one, I saw that the -genius, apart from these, was seated by Miss Lawrence at the top of -the table, and I was at the very bottom, though certainly opposite. -Starwood was on my own side, but far above me. I was constrained to -talk with the lady I had seated next me, and as she did not disdain to -respond at length, to listen while she answered; but I was not -constrained to look upon her, nor did I, nor anything but that face so -long removed, so suddenly and inexplicably restored. - -It is impossible to describe the nameless change that had crept upon -those faultless features, nor how it touched me, clove to my heart -within. Seraphael had entirely lost the flitting healthful bloom of -his very early youth: a perfect paleness toned his face, as if with -purity out-shadowed,--such pearly clearness flinging into relief the -starry distance of his full, deep-colored eyes; the forehead more -bare, more arched, was distinctly veined, and the temples were of -chiselled keenness; the cheek was thinner, the Hebrew contour more -defined; the countenance had gained in apparent calm, but when meeting -his gaze you could peer into those orbs so evening-blue, their -starlight was passionately restless. - -He was talking to Miss Lawrence; he scarcely ceased, but his -conversation was evidently not that which imported anything to -himself,--not the least shade of change thwarted the paleness I have -mentioned, which was that of watchfulness or of intense fatigue. She -to whom he spoke, on the contrary, seemed passed into another form; -she brightened more and more, she flashed, not only from her splendid -eyes, but from her glowing cheek, her brilliant smile: she was on fire -with joy that would not be extinguished; it assuredly was the time of -"all her wealth," and had her mood possessed no other charm, it would -have excited my furious taste by its interesting contrast with his -pale aspect and indrawn expression. - -It was during dessert, when the converse had sprung up like a sudden -air in a calm, when politeness quickened and elegance unconsciously -thawed, that--as I watched the little hands I so loved gleaming in the -purple of the grapes which the light fingers separated one by one--I -passed insensibly to the countenance. It was smiling, and for me: a -sudden light broke through the lips, which folded themselves again -instantly, as if never to smile again; but not until I had known the -dawn of the old living expression, that, though it had slept, I felt -now was able to awaken, and with more thankfulness than I can put into -words. He was of those who stood at the door when the ladies withdrew, -and after their retreat he began to speak to me across the table, -serving me, with a skill I could not appreciate too delicately, to the -merest trivialities, and making a sign to Starwood to take the chair -now empty next me. - -This was exactly what I wanted, for I had not seen him in the -least,--not that I was afraid he had altered, but that I was anxious -to encounter him the same. Although still a little one, he had grown -more than I expected; his blue eye was the same, the same shrinking -lip,--but a great power seemed called out of both. He was exceedingly -well formed, muscular, though delicate; his voice was that which I -remembered, but he had caught Seraphael's accent, and quite slightly -his style,--only not his manner, which no one could approach or -imitate. I learned from Starwood, as we sipped our single glass of -wine, that the Chevalier had been to Miss Lawrence's that very -morning. - -"He told me where he was going, and left me at the hotel; when he came -back he said we were invited for to-night. Miss Lawrence had asked him -to spend one evening, and he was engaged for every one but this. She -was very sorry, she said, that her father had a party to-day. The -Chevalier, however, did not mind, he told her, and should be very -happy to come anyhow." - -"But how does it happen that he is so constantly engaged? It cannot be -to concerts every evening?" - -"Carl, you have no idea how much he is engaged; the rehearsals are to -be every other day, and the rest of the evenings he has been worried -into accepting invitations. I wish to goodness people would let him -alone; if they knew what I know they would." - -"What, my dear boy?" - -"That for every evening he spends in company, he sits up half the -night. I know it, for I have watched that light under his door, and -can hear him make the least little stir when all is so quiet,--at -least, I could at Stralenfeld, where he stayed last, for my room was -across the landing-place; and since we came to London, he told me he -has not slept." - -"I should think you might entreat him to do otherwise, Starwood, or at -least request his friends to do so." - -"He might have no friends, so far as any influence they have goes. -Just try yourself, Carl; and when you see his face, you will not be -inclined to do so any more." - -"You spoke of rehearsals, Star,--what may these be? I have not heard -anything." - -"I only know that he has brought with him two symphonies, three or -four quartets, and a great roll of organ fugues, besides the score of -his oratorio." - -"I had no idea of such a thing. An oratorio?" - -"It is what he wrote in Italy some time ago, and only lately went over -and prepared. It is in manuscript." - -"Shall we hear it?" - -"It is for the third or fourth week in June, but has been kept very -quiet." - -"How did Miss Lawrence come to know him? She did not use to know him." - -"She seems to know everybody, and to get her own way in everything. -You might ask her; she would tell you, and there would be no fear of -her being angry." - -At last we rose. The lamps were lighted when we returned to the -drawing-room; it was nearly ten o'clock, but all was brilliant, -festive. I had scarcely found a seat when Seraphael touched my -shoulder. - -"I want very much to go, Charles. Will you come home with me? I have -all sorts of favors to ask you, and that is the first." - -"But, sir, Miss Lawrence is going to the piano: will not you play -first?" - -"Not at all to-night; we agreed. There are many here who would rather -be excused from music; they can get it at the opera." - -He laughed, and so did I. He then placed his other hand on Starwood, -still touching my shoulder, when Miss Lawrence approached,-- - -"Sir, you know what you said, nor can I ask you to retract it. But may -I say how sorry I am to have been so exacting this morning? It was a -demand upon your time I would not have made had I known what I now -know." - -"What is that? Pray have the goodness to tell me, for I cannot -imagine." - -"That you have brought with you what calls upon every one to beware -how he or she engages you with trifles, lest they suffer from that -repentance which comes too late. I hear of your great work, and shall -rely upon you to allow me to assist you, if it be at all possible I -can, in the very least and lowest degree." - -She spoke earnestly, with an eager trouble in her air. He smiled -serenely. - -"Oh! you quite mistake my motive, Miss Lawrence; it had not to do with -music. It was because I have had no sleep that I wished to retire -early; and you must permit me to make amends for my awkwardness. If it -will not exhaust your guests, as I see you were about to play, let me -make the opening, and oblige me by choosing what you like best." - -"Sir, I cannot refuse, selfish as I am, to permit myself such -exquisite pleasure. There is another thirsty soul here who will be all -the better for a taste of heavenly things." - -She turned to me elated. I looked into his face; he moved to the -piano, made no gesture either of impatience or satisfaction, but drew -the stool to him, and when seated, glanced to Miss Lawrence, who stood -beside him and whispered something. I drew, with Starwood, behind, -where I could watch his hands. - -He played for perhaps twenty minutes,--an _andante_ from Beethoven, an -_allegro_ from Mozart, an _aria_ from Weber, cathedral-echoes from -Purcell, fugue-points from Bach; and mixing them like gathered -flowers, bound them together with a wild, delicious _scherzo finale_, -his own. But though that playing was indeed unto me as heaven in -forecast, and though it filled the heart up to the brim, it was -extremely cold, and I do not remember ever feeling that he was -separable from his playing before. When he arose so quietly, lifting -his awful forehead from the curls that had fallen over it as he bent -his face, he was unflushed as calm, and he instantly shook hands with -Miss Lawrence, only leaving her to leave the room. I followed him -naturally, remembering his request; but she detained me a moment to -say,-- - -"You must come and see me on Thursday, and must also come to -breakfast. I shall be alone, and have something to show you. You are -going along with him, I find,--so much the better; take care of him, -and good night." - -Starwood had followed Seraphael implicitly; they were both below. We -got into a carriage at the door, and were driven I knew not whither; -but it was enough to be with him, even in that silent mood. - -With the same absent grace he ordered another bed-room when we stayed -at his hotel. I could no more have remonstrated with him than with a -monarch when we found ourselves in the stately sitting-room. - -"A pair of candles for the chamber," was his next command; and when -they were brought, he said to us: "The waiter will show you to your -rooms, dear children; you must not wait a moment." - -I could not, so I felt, object, nor entreat him himself to sleep. -Starwood and I departed; and whether it was from the novelty of the -circumstances, or my own transcending happiness, or whether it was -because I put myself into one of Starwood's dresses in default of my -own, I do not conjecture, but I certainly could not sleep, and was -forced to leave it alone. - -I sat upright for an hour or two, and then rolled amongst the great -hot pillows; I examined the register of the grate; I looked into the -tall glass at my own double: but all would not exhaust me, and towards -the very morning I left my bed and made a sally upon the -landing-place. I knew the number of Seraphael's door, for Starwood had -pointed it out to me as we passed along, and I felt drawn, as by -odyllic force, to that very metal lock. - -There was no crack, but a key-hole, and the key-hole was bright as any -star; I peeped in also, and shall never forget my delight, yet dread, -to behold that outline of a figure, which decided me to make an -entrance into untried regions, upon inexperienced moods. Without any -hesitation, I knocked; but recalling to myself his temperament, I -spoke simultaneously,-- - -"Dear sir, may I come in?" - -Though I waited not for his reply, and opened the door quite innocent -of the ghostly apparel I wore--and how very strange must have been my -appearance!--never shall I forget the look that came home to me as I -advanced more near him,--that indrawn, awful aspect, that sweetness -without a smile. - -The table was loaded with papers, but there was no strew,--that -"spirit" ever moulded to harmony its slightest "motion;" one delicate -hand was outspread over a sheet, a pen was in the other: he did not -seem surprised, scarcely aroused. I rushed up to him precipitately. - -"Dear, dearest sir, I would not have been so rude, but I could not -bear to think you might be sitting up, and I came to see. I pray you, -for God's sake, do go to bed!" - -"Carl, very Carl, little Carl, great Carl!" he answered, with the -utmost gentleness, but still unsmiling, "why should I go to bed? and -why shouldest thou come out of thine?" - -"Sir, if it is anything, I cannot sleep while you are not sleeping, -and while you ought to be besides." - -"Is that it? How very kind, how good! I do not wake wilfully, but if I -am awake I must work,--thou knowest that. In truth, Carl, hadst thou -not been so weary, I should have asked thee this very night what I -must ask thee to-morrow morning." - -"Ask me now, sir, for, if you remember, it _is_ to-morrow morning -already." - -"Go get into your bed, then." - -"No, sir, certainly not while you are sitting there." - -A frown, like the shadow of a butterfly, floated over his forehead. - -"If thou wilt have it so, I will even go to this naughty bed, but not -to sleep. The fact is, Carl, I cannot sleep in London. I think that -something in the air distresses my brain; it will _not_ shut itself -up. I was about to ask thee whether there is no country, nothing -green, no pure wind, to be had within four miles?" - -"Sir, you have hit upon a prodigious providence. There is, as I can -assure you experimentally, fresh green, pure country air of Heaven's -own distilling within that distance; and there is also much -more,--there is something you would like even better." - -"What is that, Carlomein?" - -"I will not tell you, sir, unless you sleep to-night." - -"To be sly becomes thee, precisely because thou art not a fox. I will -lie down; but sleep is God's best gift, next to love, and he has -deprived me of both." - -"If I be sly, sir, you are bitter. But there is not too much sleight, -nor bitterness either, where they can be expressed from words. So, -sir, come to bed." - -"Well spoken, Carlomein; I am coming,--sleep thou!" - -But I would not, and I did not leave him until I had seen his head -laid low in all the bareness of its beauty, had seen his large eyelids -fall, and had drawn his curtains in their softest gloom around the -burdened pillow. Then I, too, went back to bed, and I slept delectably -and dreamless. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Very late I slept, and before I had finished dressing, Starwood came -for me. Seraphael had been down some time, he told me. I was very -sorry, but relieved to discover how much more of his old bright self -he wore than on the previous evening. - -"Now, Carlomein," he began immediately, "we are going on a pilgrimage -directly after breakfast." - -I could tell he was excited, for he ate nothing, and was every moment -at the window. To Starwood his abstinence seemed a matter of course; I -was afraid, indeed, that it was no new thing. I could not remonstrate, -however, having done quite enough in that line for the present. It was -not half-past ten when we found ourselves in an open carriage, into -which the Chevalier sprang last, and in springing said to me: "Give -your own orders, Carlomein." I was for an instant lost, but recovered -myself quite in time to direct, before we drove from the hotel, to the -exact locality of Clara's cottage, unknowing whether I did well or -ill, but determined to direct to no other place. As we passed from -London and met the breeze from fields and gardens, miles and miles of -flower-land, I could observe a clearing of Seraphael's countenance: -its wan shadow melted, he seemed actually abandoned to enjoyment; -though he was certainly in his silent mood, and only called out for my -sympathy by his impressive glances as he stood up in the carriage with -his hat off and swaying to and fro. And when we reached, after a -rapid, exhilarating drive, the winding road with its summer trees in -youngest leaf, he only began to speak,--he had not before spoken. - -"How refreshing!" he exclaimed, "and what a lovely shade! I will -surely not go on a step farther, but remain here and make my bed. It -will be very unfortunate for me if all those pretty houses that I see -are full, and how can we get at them?" - -"I am nearly sure, sir, that you can live here if you like, or close -upon this place; but if you will allow me, I will go on first and -announce your arrival to a friend of mine, who will be rather -surprised at our all coming together, though she would be more happy -than I could express for her to welcome you at her house." - -"It is, then, _that_ I was brought to see,--a friend of thine; thou -hast not the assurance to tell me that any friend of thine will be -glad to welcome another! But go, Carlomein,"--and he opened the -carriage-door,--"go and get over thy meeting first; we will give thee -time. Oh, Carlomein! I little thought what a man thou hadst grown when -I saw thee so tall! Get out, and go quickly; I would not keep thee now -for all the cedars of Lebanon!" - -I could tell his mood now very accurately, but it made no difference; -I knew what I was about, or I thought I knew, and did not remain to -answer. I ran along the road, I turned the corner; the white gate -shone upon me, and again I stopped to breathe. More roses, more -narcissus lambent as lilies, more sweetness, and still more rest! The -grass had been cut that morning, and lay in its little heaps all over -the sunny lawn. The gravel was warm to my feet as I walked to the -door, and long before the door was opened I heard a voice. - -So ardent did my desire expand to identify it with its owner that I -begged the servant not to announce me, nor to disturb Miss Benette if -singing. Thoné took the cue, gave me a kind of smile, and preceded me -with a noiseless march to the very back parlor; I advanced on tiptoe -and crouching forwards. Laura, too, was there, sitting at the table. -She neither read nor worked, nor had anything in her hands; but with -more tact than I should have expected from her, only bowed, and did -not move her lips. In the morning light my angel sat, and her notes, -full orbed and star-like, descended upon my brain. Few notes I -heard,--she was just concluding,--the strain ebbed as the memory of a -kiss itself dissolving; but I heard enough to know that her voice was, -indeed, the realization of all her ideal promise. I addressed her as -she arose, and told her, in very few words, my errand. She was -perturbless as usual, and only looked enchanted, the enchantment -betraying itself in the eye, not in any tremble or the faintest flush. - -"Do bring them, sir," she said; "and as you say this gentleman has -eaten nothing, I will try what I can do to make him eat. It is so -important that I wonder you could allow him to come out until he had -breakfasted,"--for I had told her of his impatience; "afterwards, if -he likes, he can go to see the houses. There are several, I do -believe, if they have not been taken since yesterday." - -I went back to the carriage, and it was brought on to the gate, I -walking beside it. Thoné was waiting, and held it open,--the sweet hay -scented every breath. - -"Oh, how delicious!" said Seraphael, as he alighted, standing still -and looking around. - -The meadows, the hedges, the secluded ways first attracted him; and -then the garden, which I thought he would never have overpassed, then -the porch, in which he stood. - -"And this is England!" he exclaimed; "it is strange how unlike it is -to that wild dream-country I went to when last I came to London. This -is more like heaven,--quiet and full of life!" - -These words recalled me to Clara. He had put his head into the very -midst of those roses that showered over the porch. - -"Oh! I must gather one rose of all these,--there are so many; she will -never miss it." And then he laughed. A soft, soft echo of his laugh -was heard,--it startled me by its softness, it was so like an -infant's. I looked over my shoulder, and there, in the shadow of the -hall, I beheld her, her very self. It was she, indeed, who laughed, -and her eye yet smiled. Without waiting for my introduction, she -courtesied with a profound but easy air, and while, to match this -singular greeting, Seraphael made his regal bow, she said, looking at -him,-- - -"You shall have all the roses, sir, and all my flowers, if you will -let my servant gather them; for I believe you might prick your -fingers, there being also thorns. But while Thoné is at that work, -perhaps you will like to walk in out of the sun, which is too hot for -you, I am sure." She led us to the parlor where she had been singing, -the piano still stood open. - -"But," said Seraphael, taking the first chair as if it were his own, -"we disturb you! What were you doing, you and Carl? I ask his -pardon,--Mr. Auchester." - -"We two did nothing, sir; I was only singing. But that can very well -be put off till after breakfast, which will be ready in a few -minutes." - -"Breakfast?" I thought, but Clara's face told no tales,--her -loveliness was unruffled. The clear blue eye, the divine mouth, were -evidently studies for Seraphael; he sat and watched her eagerly, even -while he answered her. - -"You look as if you had had breakfast." - -"Indeed, I am very hungry, and so is my friend Mr. Auchester." - -"He always looks so, Mademoiselle!" replied the Chevalier, mirthfully, -"but I do really think he might be elegant enough to tell me your -name: he has forgotten to do so in his embarrassment. I cannot guess -whether it be English, French, or German,--Italian, Greek, or Hebrew." - -"I am called Clara Benette, sir; that is my name." - -"It is not Benette,--La Benetta benedetta! Carlomein, why hast thou so -forgotten? Allow me to congratulate you, Mademoiselle, on possessing -the right to be so named. And for this do I give you joy,--that not -for your gifts it has been bestowed, nor for that genius which is -alone of the possessor, but for that goodness which I now experience, -and feel to have been truly ascribed to you." - -He stood to her and held out his hand; calmly she gave hers to it, and -gravely smiled. - -"Sir, I thank you the more because I _know_ your name. I hope you will -excuse me for keeping you so long without your breakfast." - -He laughed again, and again sat down; but his manner, though of that -playful courtliness, was quite drawn out to her. He scarcely looked at -Laura; I did not even believe that he was aware of her presence, nor -was _I_ aware of the power of his own upon her. After ten minutes -Thoné entered and went up to Clara. She motioned to us all then, and -we arose; but as she looked at Seraphael first, he took her out and -into the dining-room. The table was snowed with damask; flowers were -heaped up in the centre,--a bowl of honeysuckles and heartsease; the -dishes here were white bread, brown bread, golden butter, new-laid -eggs in a nest of moss, the freshest cream, the earliest strawberries; -and before the chair which Clara took, stood a silver chocolate-jug -foaming, and coffee above a day-pale spirit-lamp. On the sideboard -were garnished meat, and poultry already carved, the decanters, and -still more flowers; it was a feast raised as if by magic, and -unutterably tempting at that hour of the day. Clara asked no questions -of her chief guest, but pouring out both chocolate and coffee, offered -them both; he accepted the former, nor refused the wing of a chicken -which Thoné brought, nor the bread which Clara asked me to cut. I was -perfectly astounded; she had helped herself also, and was eating so -quietly, after administering her delicious cups all round, that no one -thought of speaking. At last Starwood, by one of those unfortunate -chances that befall timid people, spoke, and instantly turned scarlet, -dropping his eyes forthwith, though he only said, "I never saw the -Chevalier eat so much." Clara answered, with her fork in her dimpled -hand, "That is because you gentlemen have had a long drive; it always -raises the appetite to come out of London into the country. You cannot -eat too much here." - -"Do you think I shall find a house that will hold me and my younger -son," said Seraphael presently, pointing at Starwood his slight -finger, "and a servant or two?" - -"If you like to send my servant, sir, she will find out for you." - -"No, perhaps you will not dislike to drive a little way with us. I -know Carl will be so glad!" - -"We shall be most pleased, sir," she answered, quite quietly, though -there was that in his expression which might easily have fluttered -her. I could not at all account for this eflish mood, though I had -been witness to freaks and fantasies in my boy days. Never had I seen -his presence affect any one so little as Clara. Had she not been of a -loveliness so peculiarly genial, I should have called her cold; as it -was, I felt he had never made himself more at home with any one in my -sight. While, having graciously deferred to her the proposal for an -instant search, he sauntered out into the little front garden, she -went for her bonnet, and came down in it,--a white straw, with a -white-satin ribbon and lining, and a little white veil of her own -work, as I could tell directly I caught her face through its wavering -and web-like tracery. Seraphael placed her in the carriage, and then -looked back. - -"Oh, Laura--that is, Miss Lemark--is not coming," observed Miss -Benette; this did not strike me except as a rather agreeable -arrangement, and off we drove. Fritz, Seraphael's own man, was on the -box,--a perfect German, of very reserved deportment, who, however, one -could see, would have allowed Seraphael to walk upon him. His heavy -demonstrations about situations and suitabilities made even Clara -laugh, as they were met by Seraphael's wayward answers and skittish -sallies. We had a very long round, and then went back to dinner with -our lady; but Seraphael, by the time the moon had risen, fell into -May-evening ecstasies with a very old-fashioned tenement built of -black wood and girded by a quickset hedge, because it suddenly, in the -silver shine, reminded him of his own house in Germany, as he said. It -was so near the cottage that two persons might even whisper together -over the low and moss-greened garden-wall. - -The invitation of Miss Lawrence I could not forget, even through the -intenser fascination spread about me. I returned with Seraphael to -town again, and again to the country; he having thither removed his -whole effects,--so important, though of so slight bulk, they -consisting almost entirely of scored and other compositions, which -were safely deposited in a little empty room of the rambling house he -had chosen. This room he and Starwood and I soon made fit to be seen -and inhabited, by our distribution of all odd furniture over it, and -all the conveniences of the story. Three large country scented -bed-rooms, with beds big enough for three chevaliers in each, and two -drawing-rooms, were all that we cared for besides. Seraphael was only -like a child that night that is preparing for a whole holiday: he -wandered from room to room; he shut himself into pantry, wine-cellar, -and china-closet; he danced like a day-beam through the low-ceiled -sitting-chambers, and almost threw himself into the garden when he saw -it out of the window. It was the wildest place,--the walks all sown -with grass, an orchard on a bank all moss, forests of fruit-trees and -moss-rose bushes, and the great white lilies in ranks all round the -close-fringed lawn; all old-fashioned flowers in their favorite soils, -a fountain and a grotto, and no end of weeping-ashes, arbors bent from -willows, and arcades of nut and filbert trees. The back of the house -was veiled with a spreading vine--too luxuriant--that shut out all but -fresh green light from the upper bed-rooms; but Seraphael would not -have a spray cut off, nor did he express the slightest dissatisfaction -at being overlooked by the chimneys and roof-hung windows of Clara's -little cottage, which peeped above the hedge. The late inhabitant and -present owner of the house, an eccentric gentlewoman who abjured all -innovation, had desired that no change should pass upon her tenement -during her absence for a sea-side summer; even the enormous mastiff, -chained in the yard to his own house, was to remain barking or baying -as he listed; and we were rather alarmed, Starwood and I, to discover -that Seraphael had let him loose, in spite of the warnings of the -housekeeper, who rustled her scant black-silk skirts against the -doorstep in anger and in dread. I was about to make some slight -movement in deprecation, for the dog was fiercely strong and of a -tremendous expression indeed, but he only lay down before the -Chevalier and licked the leather of his boots, afterwards following -him over the whole place until darkness came, when he howled on being -tied up again until Seraphael carried him a bone from our -supper-table. Our gentle master retired to rest, and his candle-flame -was lost in the moonlight long before I could bring myself to go to -bed. I can never describe the satisfaction, if not the calm, of lying -between two poles of such excitement as the cottage and that haunted -mansion. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Seraphael had desired me to stay with him, therefore the next morning -I intended to give up my London lodgings on the road to Miss -Lawrence's square, or rather out of the road. When I came downstairs -into the sun-lit breakfast-room, I found Starwood alone and writing to -his father, but no Chevalier. Nor was he in his own room, for the sun -was streaming through the vine-shade on the tossed bed-clothes, and -the door and window were both open as I descended. Starwood said that -he had gone to walk in the garden, and that we were not to wait for -him. "What! without his breakfast?" said I. But Starwood smiled such a -meaning smile that I was astonished, and could only sit down. - -We ate and drank, but neither of us spoke. I was anxious to be off, -and Star to finish his letter; though as we both arose and were still -alone, he yet looked naughty. I would not pretend to understand him, -for if he has a fault, that darling friend of mine, it is that he sees -through people rather too soon, construing their intentions before -they inform experience. - -I could not make up my mind to ride, but set off on foot along the -sun-glittering road, through emerald shades, past gold-flecked -meadows, till through the mediant chaos of brick-fields and dust-heaps -I entered the dense halo surrounding London,--"smoke the tiara of -commerce," as a pearl of poets has called it. The square looked -positively lifeless when I came there. I almost shrank from my -expedition, not because of any fear I had on my own account, but -because all the inhabitants might have been asleep behind the glaze of -their many windows. - -I was admitted noiselessly and as if expected, shown into the -drawing-room, so large, so light and splendid in the early sun. All -was noiseless, too, within; an air of affluent calm pervaded as an -atmosphere itself the rich-grouped furniture, the piano closed, the -stools withdrawn. I was not kept two minutes; Miss Lawrence entered, -in the act of holding out her hand. I was instantly at home with her, -though she was one of the grandest persons I ever saw. She accepted my -arm, and, not speaking, took me to a landing higher, and to a room -which appeared to form one of a suite; for a curtain extended across -one whole side,--a curtain as before an oratory in a dwelling-house. - -Breakfast was outspread here; on the walls, a pale sea-green, shone -delectable pictures in dead-gold frames,--pictures even to an -inexperienced eye pure relics of art. The windows had no curtains, -only a broad gold cornice; the chairs were damask, white and green; -the carpet oak-leaves, on a lighter ground. It was evidently a retreat -of the lesser art,--it could not be called a boudoir; neither ornament -nor mirror, vase nor book-stand, broke the prevalent array. I said I -had breakfasted, but she made me sit by her and told me,-- - -"I have not, and I am sure you will excuse me. One must eat, and I am -not so capable to exist upon little as you are. Yet you shall not sit, -if you would rather see the pictures, because there are not too many -to tire you in walking round. Too many together is a worse mistake -than too few." - -I arose immediately, but I took opportunity to examine my entertainer -in pauses as I moved from picture to picture. She wore black brocaded -silk this morning, with a Venetian chain and her watch, and a collar -all lace; her hair, the blackest I had ever seen except Maria's, was -coiled in snake-like wreaths to her head so small behind while it -arched so broadly and benevolently over her noble eyes. She was older -than I had imagined, and may have been forty at that time; the only -observation one could retain about the fact being that her gathered -years had but served to soften every crudity of an extremely decided -organization, and to crown wisdom with refinement. - -She soon pushed back her cup and plate, and came to my side. She -looked suddenly, a little anxiously at me. - -"You must be rather curious to know why I asked you to come to me -to-day; and were you not a gentleman, you would have been also -curious, I fancy, to know why I could not see you on Tuesday. I want -you to come this way." - -I followed; she slid the curtain along its rings, and we entered the -oratory. I know not that it was so far unlike such precinct, for from -thence art reared her consecrated offerings to the presence of every -beauty. I felt this, and that the artist was pure in heart, even -before her entire character faced my own. The walls here, of the same -soft marine shade, were also lighted by pictures,--the strangest, the -wildest, the least assorted, yet all according. - -A peculiar and unique style was theirs; each to each presented the -atmosphere of one imagination. Dark and sombrous woods, moon-pierced, -gleamed duskly from a chair where they were standing frameless; -resting against them, a crowd of baby faces clustered in a giant -flower-chalice; a great lotus was the hieroglyph of a third. On the -walls faces smiled or frowned,--huge profiles; dank pillars mirrored -in rushy pools; fragments of heathen temples; domes of diaphanous -distance in a violet sky; awful palms; dread oceans, with the last -ghost-shadow of a wandering wreck. I stood lost, unaccustomed either -to the freaks or the triumphs of pictorial art; I could only say in my -amaze, "Are these all yours? How wonderful!" She smiled very -carelessly. - -"I did not intend you to look at those, except askance, if you were -kind enough. I keep them to advertise my own deficiencies and to -compare the present with the past. The present is very aspiring, and -_for_ the present devours my future. I hope it will dedicate itself -thereunto. I wish you to come here, to this light." - -She was placed before an immense easel to the right of a large-paned -window, where the best London day streamed above the lower dimness. An -immense sheet of canvas was turned away from us upon the easel; but in -a moment she had placed it before us, and fell back in the same -moment, a little from me. - -Nor shall I ever forget that moment's issue. I forgot it was a -picture, and all I could feel was a trance-like presence brought unto -me in a day-dream of immutable satisfaction. On either side, the -clouds, light golden and lucid crimson, passed into a central sphere -of the perfect blue. And reared into that, as it were the empyrean of -the azure, gleamed in full relief the head, life-sized, of Seraphael. -The bosom white-vested, the regal throat, shone as the transparent -depths of the moon, not moonlight, against the blue unshadowed. The -clouds deeper, heavier, and of a dense violet, were rolled upon the -rest of the form; the bases of those clouds as livid as the storm, -but their edges, where they flowed into the virgin raiment, -sun-fringed, glittering. The visage was raised, the head thrown back -into the ether; but the eyes were drooping, the snow-sealed lips at -rest. The mouth faint crimson, thrilling, spiritual, appalled by its -utter reminiscence; the smile so fiery-soft just touched the lips -unparted. No symbol strewed the cloudy calm below, neither lyre, -laurel-wreathed, nor flowery chaplet; but on either side, where the -clouds disparted in wavering flushes and golden pallors, two hands of -light, long, lambent, life-like, but not earthly, held over the brow a -crown. - -Passing my eye among the cloud-lights,--for I cannot call them -shadows,--I could just gather with an eager vision, as one gathers the -thready moon-crescent in a mid-day sky, that on either side a visage -gleamed, veiled and drenched also in the rose-golden mist. - -One countenance was dread and glorious, of sharp-toned ecstasy that -cut through the quivering medium,--a self-sheathed seraph; the other -was mild and awful, informed with steadfast beauty, a shining cherub. -They were Beethoven and Bach, as they might be known in heaven; but -who, except the musician, would have known them for themselves on -earth? It was not for me to speak their names,--I could not utter -them; my heart was dry,--I was thirsty for the realization of that -picture promise. - -The crown they uplifted in those soft, shining hands was a circle of -stars gathered to each other out of that heavenly silence, and into -the azure vague arose that brow over which the conqueror's sign, -suspended, shook its silver terrors. For such awful fancies shivered -through the brain upon its contemplation that I can but call it -_transcendental_,--beyond expression; the feeling, the fear, the -mystery of starlight pressed upon the spirit and gave new pulses to -the heart. The luminous essence from the large white points seemed -rained upon that forehead and upon the deep tints of the god-like -locks; they turned all clear upon their orbed clusters, they melted -into the radiant halo which flooded, yet as with a glory one could not -penetrate, the impenetrable elevation of the lineaments. - -I dared only gaze; had I spoken, I should have wept, and I would not -disturb the image by my tears. I soon perceived how awfully the -paintress had possessed herself of the inspiration, the melancholy, -and the joy. The crown, indeed, was grounded upon rest, and of -unbroken splendor; but it beamed upon the aspect of exhaustion and -longing strife, upon lips yet thirsty, and imploring patience. - -I suppose my silence satisfied the artist; for before I had spoken, or -even unriveted my gaze, she said, herself-- - -"That I have worked upon for a year. I was allowing myself to dream -one day--just such a day as this--last spring; and insensibly my -vision framed itself into form. The faces came before I knew,--at -least those behind the clouds; and having caught them, I conceived the -rest. I could not, however, be certain of my impressions about the -chief countenance, and I waited with it unfinished enough until the -approach of the season, for I knew he was coming now, and before he -arrived I sent him a letter to his house in Germany. I had a pretty -business to find out the address, and wrote to all kinds of persons; -but at last I succeeded, and my suit was also successful. I had asked -him to sit to me." - -"Then you had not known him before? You did not know him all those -years?" - -"I had seen him often, but never known him. Oh, yes! I had seen his -face. You have a tolerable share of courage: could you have asked him -such a favor?" - -"You see, Miss Lawrence, I have received so many favors from him -without asking for them. Had I possessed such genius as yours, I -should not only have done the same, but have felt to do it was my -duty. It is a portrait for all the ages, not only for men, but for -angels." - -"Only for angels, if fit at all; for that face is something beyond -man's utmost apprehension of the beautiful. It must ever remain a -solitary idea to any one who has received it. You will be shocked if I -tell you that his beauty prevails more with _me_ than his music." - -"But is it not the immediate consequence of such musical investment?" - -"I believe, on the contrary, that the musical investment, as you -charmingly express it, is the direct consequence of the lofty -organization." - -"That is a new notion for me; I must turn it over before I take it -home. I would rather consider the complement of his gifts to be that -heavenly heart of his which endows them each and all with what must -live forever in unaltered perfection." - -"And it pleases me to feel that he is of like passions with us, -protected from the infraction of laws celestial by the image of the -Creator still conserved to his mortal nature, and stamping it with a -character beyond the age. But about his actual advent. He answered my -letter in person. I was certainly appalled to hear of his arrival, and -that he was downstairs. I was up here muddling with my brushes, -without knowing what to be at; up comes my servant-- - -"'Mr. Seraphael.' - -"Imagine such an announcement! I descend, we meet,--for the first time -in private except, indeed, on the occasion when his shadow was -introduced to me, as you may remember. He was in the drawing-room, -pale from travelling, full of languor left by sea-sickness, looking -like a spirit escaped from prison. I was almost ashamed of my daring, -far more so than alarmed. I thought he was about to appoint a day; but -no. He said,-- - -"'I am at your service this morning, if it suits you; but as you did -not favor me with your address, I could not arrange beforehand. I went -to my music-sellers and asked them about you. I need not tell you that -you were known there, and that I am much obliged to them.' - -"Actually it was a fact that I had not furnished him with my address; -but I was perfectly innocent of my folly. What could I do but not lose -a moment? I asked him to take refreshment; no, he had breakfasted, or -dined, or something, and we came up here directly. I never saw such -behavior. He did not even inquire what I was about, but sat, like a -god in marble, just where I had placed him,--out there. You perceive -that I have lost the eyes, or at least have rendered them up to -mystery. Well, when, having caught the outline of the forehead, and -touched the temples, I descended to those eyes, and saw they were full -upon me, I could do nothing with them. I cannot paint light, only its -ghost; nor fire, only its shade. His eyes are at once fire and -light,--I know not of which the most; or, at least, that which is the -light of fire. Even the streaming lashes scarcely tempered the -radiance there. I let them fall, and veiled what one scarcely dares to -meet,--at least I. He sat to me for hours; but though I knew not how -the time went, and may be forgiven for inconsideration, I had no idea -that he was going straight to the committee of the choir-day on the -top of that sitting. I kept him long enough for what I wanted, and as -he did not ask to see the picture, I did not show it him. He shall see -it when it is finished." - -"What finish does it require? I see no change that it can need to -carry out the likeness, which is all we want." - -"Oh, yes! more depth in the darkness, and more glory in the light; -less electric expression, more ideal serenity,--above all, more pain -above the forehead, more peace about the crown. Moonlight without a -moon, sunshine without the solar rays,--the day of heaven." - -"I can only say, Miss Lawrence, that you deserve to be able to do as -you have done, and to feel that no one else could have done it." - -"Very exclusive, that feeling, but perhaps necessary. I have it, but -my deserts will only be transcended if Seraphael himself shall -approve. And now for another question,--Will you go with me to this -choir-day?" - -"I am trying to imagine what you mean. I have not heard the name until -you spoke it. Is it in the North?" - -"Certainly not; though even York Minster would not be a bad -notion--that is to say, it would suit our Beethoven exactly; but this -is another hierarch. What do you think of an oratorio in Westminster -Abbey, the conductor our own, the whole affair of his? No wonder you -have heard nothing; it has been kept very snug, and was only arranged -by the interposition of various individuals whose influence is more of -mammon than of art,--the objection at first being chiefly on the part -of the profession; but that is overruled by their being pretty nearly -every one included in the orchestra. Such a thing is never likely to -occur again. Say that you will go with me. If it be anything to you, I -shall give you one of the best seats, in the very centre, where you -will see and hear better than most people. Imagine the music in that -place of tombs,--it is a melancholy but glorious project; may we -realize it!" - -_I_ could not at present,--it was out of the question; nor could I -bear to stay,--there was nothing for it but to make haste out, where -the air made solitude. I bade the paintress good morning, and quitted -her. I believe she understood my frame. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -I walked home also, and was tolerably tired. Entering the house as one -at home there, I found nobody at home, no Starwood,--no Chevalier. I -lay upon the sofa in a day-dream or two, and when rested, went out -into the garden. I searched every corner, too, in vain; but wandering -past the dividing hedge, a voice floated articulately over the still -afternoon. - -All was calm and warm. The slightest sound made way, and I hesitated -not to scale the green barrier, nowhere too high for me to leap it, -and to approach the parlor of the cottage in that unwonted fashion. I -was in for pictures this while, I suppose; for when I reached the -glass doors that swept the lawn wide open, and could peep through them -without disturbing foot on that soft soil, I saw, indeed, another, a -less impressive, not less expressive, view. Clara sat at her piano, -her side-face was in the light. His own, which I was sure to find -there, in profile also, was immediately behind her; but as he stood, -the shade had veiled him, the shade from the trembling leaves without, -through which one sunbeam shot, and upon the carpet kissed his feet. -She was singing, as I could hear, scarcely see, for her lips opened -not more than for a kiss, to sing. The strains moulded themselves -imperceptibly, or as a warble shaken in the throat of a careless -nightingale that knew no listener. - -Seraphael, as he stood apart drinking in the notes with such eagerness -that his lips were also parted, had never appeared to me so borne out -of himself, so cradled in a second nature. I could scarcely have -believed that the face I knew so well had yet an expression hidden I -knew not of; but it was so: kindled at another fire than that which -his genius had stolen from above, his eye was charged, his cheek -flushed. - -So exquisitely beautiful they looked together,--he in that soft -shadow, she in that tremulous light,--that at first I noticed not a -third figure, now brought before me. Behind them both, but sitting so -that she could see his face, was Laura,--or rather she half lay; some -antique figures carved in statuary have an attitude as listless, that -bend on monuments, or crouch in relievo. She had both her arms -outspread upon the little work-table, hanging over the edge, the hands -just clasped together, as reckless in repose; her face all colorless, -her eyes all clear, but with scarcely more tinting, were fixed, rapt, -upon Seraphael. - -I could not tell whether she was feeding upon his eye, his cheek, or -his beauteous hair; all her life came forth from her glance, but it -spent itself without expression. Still, that deep, that feeding gaze -was enough for me; there was in it neither look of hope nor of -despair, as I could have interpreted it. I did not like to advance, -and waited till my feet were stiff; but neither could I retire. - -I waited while Clara, without comment on her part or request of his, -glided from song to _scena_, from the romance of a wilderness to the -simplest troll. Her fingers just touched the keys as we touch them for -the violin solo,--supporting, but unnoticeable. At last, when afraid -to be caught,--for the face of the Chevalier in its new expression I -rather dreaded,--I went back, like a thief, the way I came, and still -more like a thief in that I carried away a treasure of remembrance -from those who knew not they had lost it. - -I found Starwood yet out, and roved very impatiently all over the -house until, at perhaps five o'clock, Seraphael came in for something. -The dog in the yard barked out; but I was in no humor to let him -loose, and ran straight into the hall. - -"Carlomein," said the Chevalier, "I thought you were in London. Is it -possible, my child, that you have not dined?" and he gave orders for -an instant preparation. "I am truly vexed that I did not know it, but -Stern is gone to his father, and will stay till the last coach -to-night. I thought you would be absent also." - -"And so, sir, I suppose you had determined to go without your dinner?" - -He smiled. - -"Not at all, Carlomein. The fact is, I _have_ dined. I could not -resist La Benetta benedetta. I never knew what young potatoes were -until I tasted them over there." - -"I daresay not," I thought; but I was wise enough to hold my tongue. - -"Then, sir, I shall dine alone; and very much I shall enjoy it. There -is nothing I like so well as dining alone, except to dine alone with -you." - -"Carl! Carl! hadst thou been in that devil when he tempted Eve! -Pardon, but I have come home for a few things, and have promised to -return." - -"Sir, if you will not think it rude, I must say that for once in your -life you are enjoying what you confer upon others. I am so glad!" - -"I thought it says, 'It is better to give than to receive.' I do like -receiving; but perhaps that is because I cannot give this which I now -receive. Carlomein, there is a spell upon thee; there is a charm about -thee, that makes thee lead all thou lovest to all they love! It is a -thing I cannot comprehend, but am too content to feel." - -He ran into his study, and returning, just glanced into the room with -an air of _allegresse_ to bid me adieu; but what had he in his arms, -if it were not the score of his oratorio? I knew its name by this -time; I saw it in that nervous writing which I could read at any -earthly distance,--what was to be done with it, and what then? Was he -going to the rehearsal, or a rehearsal of his own? - -I had not been half an hour quiet, playing to myself, having unpacked -my fiddle for the first time since I came to London, when the lady of -the scanty silk arrived at my door and aroused me. Some gentlemen had -called to see the Chevalier, and as he was supposed to be absent, must -see me. I went down into a great, dampish dining-room we had not lived -in at all, and found three or four worthies, a deputation from the -band and chorus, who had helplessly assembled two hours ago in London, -and were at present waiting for the conductor. - -It was no pleasant task to infringe the fragrant privacy of the -cottage, but I had to do it. I went to the front gate this time, and -sent up a message, that I might not render myself more intrusive than -necessary. He came down as upon the wings of the wind, with his hat -half falling from his curls, and flew to the deputation without a -syllable to me; they carried him off in triumph so immediately that I -could only fancy he looked annoyed, and may have been about that -matter mistaken. - -Certainly Clara was not annoyed, whom I went in-doors to see; Laura -had vanished, and she herself was alone in the room, answering my -first notes of admiration merely, "Yes, I have sung to him a good -while." I was, however, so struck with the change, not in manner, but -in her mien, that I would stay on to watch, at the risk of being in -the way more than ever in my days. Since I had entered, she had not -once looked up; but an unusual flush was upon her face, she appeared -serious, but intent,--something seemed to occupy her. At last, after -turning about the music-sheets that strewed the chamber everywhere, -and placing them by in silence,--and a very long time she took,--she -raised her eyes. Their lustre was indeed quickened; never saw I so -much excitement in them; they were still not so grave as -significant,--full of unwonted suggestions. I ventured to say then,-- - -"And now, Miss Benette, I may ask you what you feel about the -personality of this hero?" - -I could not put it better; she replied not directly, but came and sat -beside me on the sofa, by the window. She laid her little hands in her -lap, and her glance followed after them. I could see she was -inexpressibly burdened with some inward revelation. I could not for a -moment believe she trembled, but certainly there was a quiver of her -lips; her silken curls, so calm, did not hide the pulsation, -infantinely rapid, of those temples where the harebell-azure veins -pencilled the rose-flower skin. After a few moments' pause, during -which she evidently collected herself, she addressed me, her own sweet -voice as clear as ever, but the same trouble in it that touched her -gaze. - -"Sir, I am going to tell you something, and to ask your advice -besides." - -"I am all attention!" indeed, I was in an agony to attend and learn. - -"I have had a strange visitor this morning,--very sudden, and I was -not prepared. You will think me very foolish when you hear what is the -matter with me, that I have not written to Mr. Davy; but I prefer to -ask you. You are more enlightened, though you are so young." - -"Miss Benette, I know your visitor; for on returning home next door, I -missed my master, and I knew he could be only here. What has he done -that could possibly raise a difficulty, or said that could create a -question? He is my unerring faith, and should be yours." - -"I do not wonder; but I have not known him so long, you see, and -contemplate him differently. I had been telling him, as he requested -to know my plans, of the treatment I had received at the opera, and -how I had not quite settled whether to come out now or next year as an -actress. He answered,-- - -"'Do neither.' - -"I inquired why? - -"'You must not accept any engagement for the stage in England, and -pray do not hold out to them any idea that you will.' - -"Now, what does he mean? Am I to give up my only chance of being able -to live in England? For I wish to live here. And am I to act -unconscientiously? For my conscience tells me that the pure-hearted -should always follow their impulses. Now, I know very few persons; but -I am born to be known of many,--at least I suppose so, or why was I -gifted with this voice, my only gift?" - -"Miss Benette, you cannot suppose the Chevalier desires your voice to -be lost. Has he not been informing and interpenetrating himself with -it the whole morning? He has a higher range in view for you, be -assured, or he had not persuaded you, _I_ am certain, to annul your -present privileges. He has the right to will what he pleases." - -"And are we all to obey him?" - -"Certainly; and only him,--in matters musical. If you knew him as I -do, you would feel this." - -"But is it like a musician to draw me away from my duty?" - -"Not obviously; but there may be no duty here. You do not know how -completely, in the case of dramatic, and indeed of all other art, the -foundations are out of course." - -"You mean they do not fulfil their first intentions. But then nothing -does, except, certainly, as it was first created. We have lost that -long." - -"Music, Miss Benette, it appears to me, so long as it preserves its -purity, may consecrate all the forms of art by raising them into its -own atmosphere,--govern them as the soul the body. But where music is -itself degraded, its very type defaced, its worship rendered -ridiculous, its nature mere name, by its own master the rest falls. I -know not much about it, but I know how little the drama depends on -music in this country, and how completely, in the first place, one -must lend one's self to its meanest effect in order to fulfil the -purpose of the writer. All writers for the stage have become profane, -and dramatic writers whom we still confess to, are banished from the -stage in proportion to the elevation of their works. I even go so far -as to think an artist does worse who lends an incomparable organ to -such service than an unheeded player (myself, for example), who -should form one in the ranks of such an orchestra as that of our -opera-houses, where the bare notion or outline of harmony is all that -is provided for us. While the idea of the highest prevails with us, -our artist-life must harmonize, or Art will suffer,--and it suffers -enough now. I have said too long a say, and perhaps I am very -ignorant; but this is what I think." - -"You cannot speak too much, sir, and you know a great deal more than I -do. My feeling was that I could perhaps have shown the world that -simplicity of life is not interfered with by a public career, and that -those who love what is beautiful must also love what is good, and -endeavor to live up to it besides. I have spoken to several musicians -abroad, who came to me on purpose; they all extolled my voice, and -entreated me to sing upon the stage. I did so then because I was poor -and had several things I wished to do; but I cannot say I felt at home -with music on the stage in Italy. The gentleman who was here to-day -was the first who disturbed my ideas and dissuaded me. I was -astonished, not because I am piqued,--for you do not know how much I -should prefer to live a quiet life,--but because everybody else had -told me a different story. I do not like to think I shall only be able -to sing in concerts, for there are very few concerts that content me, -and I do so love an orchestra. Am I to give it all up? If this -gentleman had said, 'Only sing in this opera or that,' I could have -made up my mind. But am I never to sing in any? Am I to waste my voice -that God gave me as he gives to others a free hand or a great -imagination? You cannot think so, with all your industry and all your -true enthusiasm." - -"Miss Benette, you must not be shocked at what I shall now say, -because I mean it with all reverence. I could no more call in -question the decision of such genius than I could that of Providence -if it sent me death-sickness or took away my friends. I am certain -that the motive, which you cannot make clear just yet, is that you -would approve of." - -"And you also, sir?" - -"And I also, though it is as dark to me as to you. Let it stand over, -then; but for all our sakes do not thwart him,--he has suffered too -much to be thwarted." - -"Has he suffered? I did not know that." - -"Can such a one live and not suffer? A nature which is all love,--an -imagination all music?" - -"I thought that he looked delicate, but very happy,--happy as a child -or an angel. I have seen your smile turn bitter, sir,--pardon,--but -never his. I am sure, if it matters to him that I should accede, I -will do so, and I cannot thank you enough for telling me." - -"Miss Benette, if you are destined to do anything great for music, it -may be in one way as well as in another; that is, if you befriend the -greatest musician, it is as much as if you befriended music. Now you -cannot but befriend him if you do exactly as he requests you." - -"In all instances, you recommend?" - -"_I_, at least, could refuse him nothing. The nourishment such a -spirit requires is not just the same as our own, perhaps, but it must -not the less be supplied. If I could, now, clean his boots better than -any one else, or if he liked my cookery, I would give up what I am -about and take a place in his service." - -"What! you would give up your violin, your career, your place among -the choir of ages?" - -"I would; for in rendering a single hour of his existence on earth -unfretted,--in preserving to him one day of ease and comfort,--I -should be doing more for all people, all time, at least for the ideal, -who will be few in every age, but many in all the ages, and who I -believe leaven society better than a priesthood. I would not say so -except to a person who perfectly understands me; for as I hold laws to -be necessary, I would infringe no social or religious _régime_ by one -heterodox utterance to the ear of the uninitiated: still, having said -it, I keep to my text, that you must do exactly as he pleases. He has -not set a seal upon your throat at present, if you have been singing -all the morning." - -"I have been singing from his new great work. There is a contralto -solo, 'Art Thou not from Everlasting?' which spoiled my voice; I could -not keep the tears down, it was so beautiful and entreating. He was a -little angry at me; at least he said, 'You must not do that.' There is -also a very long piece which I scarcely tried, we had been so long -over the other, which he made me sing again and again until I composed -myself. What a mercy Mr. Davy taught us to read so fast! I have found -it help me ever since. Do you mean to go to this oratorio?" - -"I am to go with Miss Lawrence. How noble, how glorious she is!" - -"Your eyes sparkle when you speak of her. I knew you would there find -a friend." - -"I hope you, too, will hear it, Miss Benette. I shall speak to the -Chevalier about it." - -"I pray you not to do so; there will not be any reason, for I find out -all about those affairs. Take care of yourself, Mr. Auchester, or -rather make Miss Lawrence take care of you; she will like to have to -do so." - -"I must go home, if it is not to be just yet, and return on purpose -for the day." - -"But that will fatigue you very much,--cannot you prevent it? One -ought to be quiet before a great excitement." - -"Oh! you have found that. I cannot be quiet until afterwards." - -"I have never had a great excitement," said Clara, innocently; "and I -hope I never may. It suits me to be still." - -"May that calm remain in you and for you with which you never fail to -heal the soul within your power, Miss Benette!" - -"I should indeed be proud, Mr. Auchester, to keep you quiet; but that -you will never be until it is forever." - -"In that sense no one could, for who could ever desire to awaken from -that rest? And from all rest here it is but to awaken." - -I felt I ought to go, or that I might even remain too long. It was -harder at that moment to leave her than it had ever been before; but I -had a prescience that for that very reason it was better to depart. -Starwood had returned, I found, and was waiting about in the evening, -before the candles came. - -We both watched the golden shade that bound the sunset to its crimson -glow, and then the violet dark, as it melted downwards to embrace the -earth. We were both silent, Starwood from habit (I have never seen -such power of abstraction), I by choice. An agitated knock came -suddenly, about nine, and into the room bounced the big dog, tearing -the carpet up with his capers. Seraphael followed, silent at first as -we; he stole after us to the window, and looked softly forth. I could -tell even in the uncertain silver darkness of that thinnest shell of -a moon that his face was alight with happiness, an ineffable -gentleness,--not the dread alien air of heaven, soothing the passion -of his countenance. He laid for long his tiny hand upon my shoulder, -his arm crept round my neck, and drawing closer still, he sighed -rather than said, after a thrilling pause,-- - -"Carlomein, wilt thou come into my room? I have a secret for thee; it -will not take long to tell." - -"The longer the better, sir." - -We went out through the dark drawing-room, we came to his -writing-chamber; here the white sheets shone like ghosts in the bluish -blackness, for we were behind the sunset. - -"We will have no candles, because we shall return so soon. And I love -secrets told in the dark, or between the dark and light. I have -prevented that child from taking her own way. It was very naughty, and -I want to be shriven. Shrive me, Charles." - -"In all good part, sir, instantly." - -"I have been quarrelling with the manager. He was very angry, and his -whiskers stood out like the bristles of a cat; for I had snatched the -mouse from under his paw, you see." - -"The mouse must have been glad enough to get away, sir. And you have -drawn a line through her engagement? She has told me something of it, -and we are grateful." - -"I have cancelled her engagement! Well, this one,--but I am going to -give her another. She does not know it, but she will sing for me at -another time. Art thou angry, Carl? Thou art rather a dread -confessor." - -"I could not do anything but rejoice, sir. How little she expects to -bear such a part! She is alone fitted for it; an angel, if he came -into her heart, could not find one stain upon his habitation." - -"The reason you take home to you, then, Carlomein?" - -"Sir, I imagine that you consider her wanting in dramatic power; or -that as a dramatic songstress under the present dispensation she would -but disappoint herself, and perhaps ourselves; or that she is too -delicately organized,--which is no new notion to me." - -"All of these reasons, and yet not one,--not even because, Carlomein, -in all my efforts I have not written directly for the stage, nor -because a lingering recollection ever forbids profane endeavor. There -is yet a reason, obvious to myself, but which I can scarcely make -clear to you. Though I would have you know, and learn as truth, that -there is nothing I take from this child I will not restore to her -again, nor shall she have the lesson to be taught to feel that in -heaven alone is happiness." - -He made a long, long pause. I was in no mood to reply, and it was not -until I was ashamed of my own silence that I spoke; then my own -accents startled me. I told Seraphael I must return on the morrow to -my own place if I were to enjoy at length what Miss Lawrence had set -before me. He replied that I must come back to him when I came, and -that he would write to me meantime. - -"If I can, Carlomein; but I cannot always write even, my child, to -thee. There is one thing more between us,--a little end of business." - -He lit with a waxen match a waxen taper, which was coiled into a -brazen cup; he brought it from the mantelshelf to the table; he took a -slip of paper and a pen. The tiny flame threw out his hand, of a -brilliant ivory, while his head remained in flickering shadow,--I -could trace a shadow smile. - -"Now, Carlomein, this brother of yours. His name is David, I think?" - -"Lenhart Davy, sir." - -"Has he many musical friends?" - -"Only his wife particularly so,--the class are all neophytes." - -"Well, he can do as he pleases. Here is an order." - -He held out the paper in a regal attitude, and in the other hand -brought near the tremulous taper, that I so might read. It was,-- - - ABBEY CHOIR, WESTMINSTER. - - Admit Mr. Lenhart Davy and party 21st June. - - SERAPHAEL. - -I could say nothing, nor even essay to thank him,--indeed he would not -permit it, as I could perceive. We returned directly to the -drawing-room, and roused Starwood from a blue study, as the Chevalier -expressed it. - -"I am ready, and Miss Lemark is tired of waiting for both of us," said -Miss Lawrence, as she entered that crown of days, the studio; "I have -left her in the drawing-room. And, by the way, though it is nothing to -the purpose, she has dressed herself very prettily." - -"I do not think it is nothing to the purpose,--people dress to go to -church, and why not, then, to honor music? You have certainly -succeeded also, Miss Lawrence, if it is not impertinent that I say -so." - -"It is not impertinent. You will draw out the colors of that bit of -canvas, if you gaze so ardently." - -It was not so easy to refrain. That morning the pictured presence had -been restored to its easel, framed and ready for inspection. I had -indeed lost myself in that contemplation; it was hard to tear myself -from it even for the embrace of the reality. The border, dead gold, -of great breadth and thickness, was studded thickly with raised bright -stars, polished and glittering as points of steel. The effect thus -seemed conserved and carried out where in general it abates. I cannot -express the picture; it was finished to that high degree which -conceals its own design, and mantles mechanism with pure suggestion. I -turned at length and followed the paintress; my prospects more -immediate rushed upon me. - -Our party, small and select as the most seclusive spirit could ask -for, consisted of Miss Lawrence and her father,--a quiet but genuine -amateur he,--of Miss Lemark, whom my friend had included without a -question, with Starwood and myself. We had met at Miss Lawrence's, and -went together in her carriage. She wore a deep blue muslin -dress,--blue as that summer heaven; her scarf was gossamer, the hue of -the yellow butterfly, and her bonnet was crested with feathers -drooping like golden hair. Laura was just in white; her Leghorn hat -lined with grass-green gauze; a green silk scarf waved around her. -Both ladies carried flowers. Geraniums and July's proud roses were in -Miss Lawrence's careless hand, and Laura's bouquet was of myrtle and -yellow jasmine. - -We drove in that quiet mood which best prepares the heart. We passed -so street by street, until at length, and long before we reached it, -the gray Abbey towers beckoned us from beyond the houses, seeming to -grow distant as we approached, as shapes of unstable shadow, rather -than time-fast masonry. - -Into the precinct we passed, we stayed at the mist-hung door. It was -the strangest feeling--mere physical sensation--to enter from that -searching heat, those hot blue heavens, into the cool, the dream of -dimness, where the shady marbles clustered, and the foot fell dead and -awfully, where hints more awful pondered, and for our coming waited. -Yea, as if from far and very far, as if beyond the grave descending, -fell wondrous unwonted echoes from the tuning choir unseen. -Involuntarily we paused to listen, and many others paused,--those of -the quick hand or melodious forehead, those of the alien aspect who -ever draw after music. Now the strings yearned fitfully,--a sea of -softest dissonances; the wind awoke and moaned; the drum detonated and -was still; past all the organ swept, a thundering calm. - -Entering, still hushed and awful, the centre of the nave, we caught -sight of the transept already crowded with hungering, thirsting faces; -still they too, and all there hushed and awful. The vision of the -choir itself, as it is still preserved to me, is as a picture of -heaven to infancy. What more like one's idea of heaven than that -height, that aspiring form,--the arches whose sun-kissed summits -glowed in distance, whose vista stretched its boundaries from the -light of rainbows at one end, on the other to the organ, music's -archetype? Not less powerful, predominating, this idea of our other -home, because no earthly flowers nor withering garlands made the -thoughts recoil on death and destiny,--the only flowers there, the -rays transfused through sun-pierced windows; the blue mist strewing -aisle and wreathing arch, the only garlands. Nor less because for once -an assembly gathered of all the fraternities of music, had the unmixed -element of pure enthusiasm thrilled through the "electric chain" from -heart to heart. Below the organ stood Seraphael's desk, as yet -unhaunted; the orchestra; the chorus, as a cloud-hung company, with -starlike faces in the lofty front. - -I knew not much about London orchestras, and was taking a particular -stare, when Miss Lawrence whispered in a manner that only aroused, not -disturbed me: "There is our old friend Santonio. Do look and see how -little he is altered!" - -I caught his countenance instantly,--as fine, as handsome, a little -worn at its edges, but rather refined by that process than otherwise. -"I did not ask about him, because I did not know he was in London. He -is, then, settled here; and is he very popular?" - -"You need not ask the question; he is too true to himself. No, -Santonio will never be rich, though he is certainly not poor." - -Then she pointed to me one head and another crowned with fame; but I -could only spare for them a glance,--Santonio interested me still. He -was reminding me especially of himself as I remembered him, by laying -his head, as he had used to do, upon the only thing he ever really -loved,--his violin,--when, so quietly as to take us by surprise, -Seraphael entered, I may almost say rose upon us, as some new-sprung -star or sun. - -Down the nave the welcome rolled, across the transept it overflowed -the echoes; for a few moments nothing else could be felt, but there -was, as it were, a tender shadow upon the very reverberating -jubilance,--it was subdued as only the musical subdue their proud -emotions; it was subdued for the sake of one whose beauty, lifted over -us, appeared descending, hovering from some late-left heaven, ready to -depart again, but not without a sign, for which we waited. -Immediately, and while he yet stood with his eyes of power upon the -whole front of faces, the solo-singers entered also and took their -seats all calmly. - -There were others besides Clara, but besides her I saw nothing, except -that they were in colors, while she wore black, as ever; but never had -I really known her loveliness until it shone in contrast with that -which was not so lovely. More I could not perceive, for now the -entering bar of silence riveted; we held our breath for the coming of -the overture.[8] - -It opened like the first dawn of lightening, yet scarce yet lightened -morning, its vast subject introduced with strings alone in that joyous -key which so often served him, yet as in the extreme of vaulting -distance; but soon the first trombone blazed out, the second and third -responding with their stupendous tones, as the amplifications of fugue -involved and spread themselves more and more, until, like glory -filling up and flooding the height of heaven from the heaven of -heavens itself, broke in the organ, and brimmed the brain with the -calm of an utter and forceful expression, realized by tone. In -sympathy with each instrument, it was alike with none, even as the -white and boundless ray of which all beams, all color-tones are born. -The perfect form, the distinct conception of this unbrothered work, -left our spirits as the sublime fulfilment confronted them. For once -had genius, upon the wings of aspiration, that alone are pure, found -all it rose to seek, and mastered without a struggle all that it -desired to embrace; for the pervading purpose of that creation was the -passioned quietude with which it wrought its way. The vibrating -harmonies, pulse-like, clung to our pulses, then drew up, drew out -each heart, deep-beating and undistracted, to adore at the throne -above from whence all beauty springs. And opening and spreading thus, -too intricately, too transcendentally for criticism, we do not essay, -even feebly, to portray that immortal work of a music-veiled immortal. - -Inextricable holiness, precious as the old Hebrew psalm of all that -hath life and breath,[9] exhaled from every modulation, each dropped -celestial fragrances, the freshness of everlasting spring. -Suggestive,--our oratorio suggested nothing here, nothing that we find -or feel; all that we seek and yearn to clasp, but rest in our -restlessness to discover is beyond us! In nothing that form of music -reminded of our forms of worship,--in the day of Paradise it might -have been dreamed of, an antepast of earth's last night, and of -eternity at hand,--or it might be the dream of heaven that haunts the -loving one's last slumber. - -I can no more describe the hush that hung above and seemed to -spiritualize the listeners until, like a very cloud of mingling souls, -they seemed congregated to wait for the coming of a Messiah who had -left them long, promising to return; nor how, as chorus after chorus, -built up, sustained, and self-supported, gathered to the stricken -brain, the cloud of spirits sank, as in slumber sweeter than any -dreamful stir, upon the alternating strains and songs, all -softness,--all dread soothing, as the fire that burned upon the -strings seemed suddenly quenched in tears. Faint supplications wafted -now, now deep acclaims of joy; but all, all surcharged the spirit -alike with the mysterious thrall and tenderness of that uncreate and -unpronounceable Name, whose eternal love is all we need to assure us -of eternal life. - -It was with one of those alternate strains that Clara rose to sing, -amidst silence yet unbroken, and the more impressive because of the -milder symphony that stole from the violoncello, its meandering pathos -asking to support and serve her voice. Herself penetrated so deeply -with the wisdom of genius, she failed to remind us of herself; even -her soft brow and violet eyes--violet in the dense glory of the Abbey -afternoon light--were but as outward signs and vivid shadows of the -spirit that touched her voice. Deeper, stiller than the violoncello -notes, hers seemed as those articulated, surcharged with a revelation -beyond all sound. - -Calm as deep, clear as still, they were yet not passionless; though -they clung and moulded themselves strictly to the passion of the -music, lent not a pulse of their own; nor disturbed it the rapt -serenity of her singing to gaze upon her angel-face. No child could -have seemed less sensitive to the surrounding throng, nor have -confided more implicitly in the father of its heart, than she leaned -upon Seraphael's power. - -I made this observation afterwards, when I had time to think; at -present I could only feel, and feeling know, that the intellect is but -the servant of the soul. When at length those two hours, concentrating -such an eternity in their perfection of all sensation, had reached -their climax, or rather when, brightening into the final chorus, -unimprisoned harmonies burst down from stormy-hearted organ, from -strings all shivering alike, from blasting, rending tubes, and thus -bound fast the Alleluia,--it was as if the multitude had sunk upon -their knees, so profound was the passion-cradling calm. The -blue-golden lustre, dim and tremulous, still crowned the unwavering -arches,--tender and overwrought was laid that vast and fluctuating -mind. So many tears are not often shed as fell in that silent -while,--dew-stilly they dropped and quickened; but still not all had -wept. - -Many wept then who had never wept before; many who had wept before -could not weep now,--among them I. Our party were as if lost to me; as -I hid my face my companion did not disturb me,--she was too far -herself in my own case. I do not know whether I heard, but I was aware -of a stretching and breathing; the old bones stirring underneath the -pavement would have shaken me less, but could not have been less to my -liking; the rush, however soft, the rustle, however subdued, were -agony, were torment: I could only feel, "Oh that I were in heaven! -that I might never return to earth!" But then it came upon me, to that -end we must all be changed. This was sad, but of a sadness peculiarly -soothing; for could we be content to remain forever as we are here, -even in our holiest, our strongest moments? - -During the last reverberations of that unimaginable Alleluia I had not -looked up at all; now I forced myself to do so, lest I should lose my -sight of _him_,--his seal upon all that glory. As Seraphael had risen -to depart, the applause, stifled and trembling, but not the less by -heartfuls, rose for him. - -He turned his face a moment,--the heavenly half-smile was there; then -at that very moment the summer sun, that, falling downwards in its -piercing glare, glowed gorgeous against the flower-leaf windows, flung -its burning bloom, its flushing gold upon that countenance. We all saw -it, we all felt it,--the seraph-strength, the mortal beauty,--and that -it was pale as the cheek of the quick and living changed in -death,--that his mien was of no earthly triumph! - -FOOTNOTES: - -[8] The Lobgesang, or Hymn of Praise. - -[9] The majestic phrase with which the symphony opens, and which also -appears in the vocal parts ("All that has life and breath"), is the -Intonation to the second tone of the Magnificat. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -To that last phase of an unworldly morning succeeded the usual -contrasts both of state and mood. Pushing out all among the marbles in -a graceless disorder, finding in the sacred gloom of the precinct the -flashing carriages, the crested panels; a rattle, a real noise, real -things, real people,--these were as one might expect; and yet I was -very ungrateful, for I desired especially to avoid my dear brother and -dearest sister, who had come from the country that very day, though I -yet had failed to recognize or seek for them. Davy could generally -express what he _felt_ about music, and I did not know how it might -be. - -I was thankful to be with Miss Lawrence, who behaved exactly as I -wished; that is to say, when we were fairly seated she began to talk -to her father, not to me, and upon indifferent or adverse matters. Of -Laura I had not even thought until now. She was upon my side, though -not just next me; she leaned back, and was so slight that nothing -could be seen of her, except her crushed-up dress. While, as an -amusing point of idiosyncrasy, I may remark that Miss Lawrence's dress -was as superb as ever; she also carried her flowers, not one decayed. -Laura has lost hers altogether. - -Poor Starwood had closed his eyes, and was pretending to be asleep; he -had one of those headaches of his that rendered silence a necessity, -although they are "only nervous," and do not signify in the least. I -had no headache; I never was better in my life, and I never felt so -forcibly how much life is beyond _living_. - -We drove home soon enough; I was Miss Lawrence's guest, and I knew -that with her generous goodness she had invited Millicent and Davy. We -had scarcely entered the drawing-room, where everything was utterly -unreal to me, before Davy's little quick knock came. - -Miss Lawrence then approached me, and putting her bonnet quite over my -face, said, in a knowing whisper: - -"You just go along upstairs; I know you cannot bear it. I am not made -quite of your stuff, and shall be happy to entertain your people. Your -brother and sister are no such awful persons to me, I assure you." - -I obeyed,--perhaps selfishly; but I should have been poor company -indeed,--and went to my large bed-room. Large and luxuriously -furnished, it even looked romantic. I liked it; I passed to the -window, and was disturbed a moment afterwards by a servant who bore a -tray of eatables, with wine, sent by Miss Lawrence, of course, whose -moments counted themselves out in deeds of kindness. I took the tray, -delivered it to the charge of the first chair next the door, and -returned to my own at the window-seat. - -The blue sky, so intense and clear, so deep piercing, was all I needed -to gaze on; and I was far gone in revery when I heard a knock at the -door of my room. It was a strange, short beat, almost as weird as -"Jeffrey," but at least it startled me to rise. I arose, and opened -it. I beheld Laura. I was scarcely surprised; yet I should indeed have -been surprised but for my immediate terror, almost awe, at her -unformal aspect. - -I never saw a living creature look so far like death. There was no -gleam of life in her wan face, so fallen, agonized; no mortal, -spending sickness could have so reduced her! She fixed upon me her -wild eyes, clear as tearless; but at first she could not speak. She -tried again and again, but at last she staggered, and I put her, I -know not how, exactly, into a chair at hand. She was light almost as a -child of five years old, but so listless that I was afraid of hurting -her; and immediately she sat down she fainted. It was a real, -unmitigated faint, and no mistake; I could see she had not herself -expected it. I was accustomed to this kind of thing, however, for -Lydia at home was fond of fainting away in church, or on the threshold -of the door; also Fred's wife made a point of fainting at regular -intervals. But I never saw any one faint as Laura: she turned to -marble in a moment; there was a rigid fixing of her features that -would have alarmed me had I loved her, and that rendered my very -anxiety for her a grief. I could not lift her then, for light as she -was, she leaned upon me, and I could only stretch my arm to reach the -decanter from its stand. The wine was, however, of no use at present; -I had to put the glass upon the floor after filling it with -unmentionable exertion. But after ten minutes or so, as I expected -from a relaxation of her countenance, she awoke as out of a breathless -sleep. She looked at me, up into my face; she was again the little -Laura whom I had known at Davy's class. - -"I only wanted to ask you to let me lie upon your bed, for I am going -back to-night, and have not a room here; and I did not like to ask -Miss Lawrence. I hope you do not mind it. I should not have done so, -if I had not felt so very ill." - -The humility of her manner here, so unlike what I had seen in the -little I had seen of her, made me ashamed, and it also touched me -seriously. I said I was sorry, very sorry, that she should be ill, but -that it was what any very delicate or feeling person might expect -after so much excitement; and as I spoke, I would have assisted her, -but she assisted herself, and lay down upon the bed directly. - -"If you please, sit in the window away from me, and go on with your -thoughts. Do not trouble yourself about me, or I shall go away again." - -"I will keep quiet, certainly, because you yourself should keep so." - -And then I gave her the wine, and covered her with the quilt to the -throat; for although it was so warm, she had begun to shake and -tremble as she lay. I held the wine to her lips, for she could not -hold the glass; and while I did so, before she tasted, she said, with -an emphasis I am very unlikely ever to forget,-- - -"I wish it could be poison." - -I saw there was something the matter then, and as being responsible at -that instant, I mechanically uttered the reply,-- - -"Will you not tell me why you wish it? I _can_ mix poison; but I -should be very sorry to give it to any one, and above all to you." - -"Why to _me_? You would be doing more good than by going to hear all -that music." - -I gazed at her for one moment; a suspicion (which, had it been a -certainty, would have failed to turn me from her) thwarted my simple -pity. I gazed, and it was enough; I felt there was nothing I needed -fear to know,--that child had never sinned against her soul. I -therefore said, more carelessly than just then I felt: - -"Miss Lemark, because you are gifted, because you are good, because -you are innocent. It is not everybody who is either of these, and very -few indeed are all the three. I will not have you talk just now, -unless, indeed, you can tell me that I can do nothing for you. You -know how slight my resources are, but you need not fear to trust me." - -"If you did let me talk, what should I say? But you have told a -lie,--or rather, I made you tell it. I am _not_ gifted,--at least, my -gifts are such as nobody really cares for. I am innocent? I am _not_ -innocent; and for the other word you used, I do not think I ought to -speak it,--it no more belongs to me than beauty or than happiness." - -"All that is beautiful belongs to all who love it, thank God, Miss -Lemark, or I should be very poor indeed in that respect. But why are -you so angry with yourself because, having gone through too much -happiness, you are no longer happy? It must be so for all of us, and I -do not regret, though I have felt it." - -"_You_ regret it,--you to regret anything!" said Laura, haughtily, her -hauteur striking through her paleness reproachfully. "You--a man! I -would sell my soul, if I have a soul, to be a man, to be able to live -to myself, to be delivered from the torment of being and feeling what -nobody cares for." - -"If we live to ourselves, we men,--if I may call myself a man,--we are -not less tormented, and not less because men are expected to bear up, -and may not give themselves relief in softer sorrow. My dear Miss -Lemark, it appears to me that if we allow ourselves to sink, either -for grief or joy, it matters not which, we are very much to blame, and -more to be pitied. There is ever a hope, even for the hopeless, as -they think themselves; how much more for those who need not and must -not despair! And those who are born with the most hopeful temper find -that they cannot exist without faith." - -"That is the way the people always talk who have everything the world -can give them,--who have more than everything they wish for; who have -all their love cared for; who may express it without being mocked, and -worship without being trampled on. You are the most enviable person in -the whole world except one, and I do not envy her, but I do envy you." - -"Very amiable, Miss Lemark!" and I felt my old wrath rising, yet -smiled it down. "You see all this is a conjecture on your part; you -cannot know what I feel, nor is it for you to say that because I am a -man I can have exactly what I please. Very possibly, precisely because -I am a man, I cannot. But anyhow, I shall not betray myself, nor is it -ever safe to betray ourselves, unless we cannot help it." - -"I do not care about betraying myself; I am miserable, and I _will_ -have comfort,--comfort is for the miserable!" - -"Not the comfort a human heart can bring you, however soft it may -chance to be." - -"I should hate a soft heart's comfort; I would not take it. It is -because you are not soft-hearted I want yours." - -"I would willingly bestow it upon you if I knew how; but you know that -Keble says: "Whom oil and balsams kill, what salve can cure?'" - -"I do not know Keble." - -"Then you ought to cultivate his acquaintance, Miss Lemark, as a poet, -at least, if not as a gentleman." - -I wished at once to twist the subject aside and to make her laugh; a -laugh dispels more mental trouble than any tears at times. But, -contrary to expectation on my part, my recipe failed here; she broke -into a tremendous weeping, without warning, nor did she hide her -face, as those for the most part do who must shed their tears. She -sobbed openly, aloud; and yet her sorrow did not inspire me with -contempt, for it was as unsophisticated as any child's. It was evident -she had not been accustomed to suffering, and knew not how to restrain -its expression, neither that it ought to be restrained. I moved a few -feet from her, and waited; I did right,--in the rain the storm -exhaled. She wiped away her tears, but they yet pearled the long, pale -lashes as she resumed,-- - -"I am much obliged to you for telling me I ought not to say these -things; but it would be better if you could prevent my feeling them." - -"No one can prevent that, Miss Lemark; and perhaps it does not signify -what you feel, if you can prevent its interfering with your duty to -others and to yourself." - -"You to talk of duty,--you, who possess every delight that the earth -contains, and with whom I would rather change places than with the -angels!" - -"I have many delights; but if I had no duties to myself, the delights -would fail. An artist, I consider, Miss Lemark, has the especial duty -imposed upon him or her to let it be seen that art is the nearest -thing in the universe to God, after nature; and his life must be -tolerably pure for that." - -"That is just it. But it is easy enough to do right when you have all -that your heart wants and your mind asks for. I have nothing." - -"Miss Lemark, you are an artist." - -"You know very well how you despise such art as mine, even if I did my -duty by that; but I do not, and that is what I want comfort for. You -did not think I should tell you anything else!" - -"I would have you tell me nothing that you are not obliged to say; it -is dangerous,--at least, I should find it so." - -"You have not suffered; or if you have, you have never offended. I -have done what would make you spurn me. But that would not matter to -me; anything is better than to seem what I am not." - -"What is the matter, then? I never spurned a living creature, God -knows; and for every feeling of antipathy to some persons, I have felt -a proportionate wish for their good. There are different ranks of -spirits, Miss Lemark, and it is not because we are in one that we do -not sympathize quite as much as is necessary with the rest. Albeit, -you and I are of one creed, you know,--both artists, and both, I -believe, desirous to serve art as we best may; thus we meet on equal -grounds, and whatever you say I shall hear as if it were my sister who -spoke to me." - -"If you meant that, it would be very kind, for I have no brother; I -have none of my blood, and I can expect no one else to love me. I do -not care to be loved, even; but every one must grow to something. You -know Clara? I see you do; you always felt for her as you could not -help. No one could feel for her as she deserves. I wish I could die -for Clara, and now I cannot die even for myself, for I feel, oh! I -feel that to die is not to die,--that music made me feel it; but I -have never felt it before,--I have been a heathen. I cannot say I wish -I had not heard it, for anything is better than to be so shut out as I -was. You remember how, when I was a little girl, I loved to dance. I -always liked it until I grew up; but I cannot tell you how at last, -when I came out in Paris, and after the first few nights,--which were -most beautiful to me,--I wearied. Night after night, in the same -steps, to the same music--music--Is it music? You do not look as if -you called it so. I did not know I danced,--I dreamed; I am not sure -now, sometimes, that I was ever awake those nights. I was lazy, and -grew indolent; and when Clara came to Paris, I went along with her. -Would you believe it? I have done nothing ever since." She paused a -long minute; I did not reply. "You are not shocked?" - -"No. I think not." - -"You don't scorn me, and point your face at me? Then you ought, for I -lived upon her and by her, and made no effort, while she took no rest, -working hard and always. But with it all she kept her health, like the -angels in heaven, and I grew ill and weak. I could not dance then. I -felt it to be impossible, though sometimes it came upon me that I -could; and then the remembrance of those nights, all alike, night -after night--I could not. Pray tell me now whether I am not worthless. -But I have no beauty; I am lost." - -"Miss Lemark, if you were really lost, and had no beauty, it appears -to me that you would not complain about it; people do not, I assure -you, who are ugly or in despair. You are overdone, and you overrate -your little girlish follies; everything is touched by the color of -your thought, but is not really what it seems. Believe me,--as I -cannot but believe,--that your inaction arose from morbid feeling and -not too strong health; not from true want of energy or courage. You -are young, a great deal too young, to trust all you fancy, or even -feel; and you ought to be thankful there is nothing more for you to -regret than that weighing down your spirit. You will do everything we -expect and wish, when you become stronger,--a strong woman, I hope; -for remember, you are only a girl. Nor will you find that you are -less likely to succeed then because of this little voluntary of -_idlesse_." - -"You are only speaking so because it is troublesome to you to be -addressed at all. You do not mean it; you are all music." - -"There is only one who is all music, Miss Lemark." - -She hid her face for many minutes; at last she looked up, and said -with more softness, a smile almost sweet: - -"Mr. Auchester, I feel I am detaining you; let me beg you to sit -down." - -I just got up on the side of the bed. - -"That will do beautifully. And now, Miss Lemark, if I am to be your -doctor, you must go to sleep." - -"Because I shall not talk? But I will not go to sleep, and I will -talk. What should you do if you were in my place, feeling as I do?" - -"I do not know all." - -"You may if you like." - -"Then I may guess; at least, I may imagine all that I might feel if I -were in your place,--a delicate young lady who has been fainting for -the love of music." - -"You are sneering; I do not mind that. I have seen such an expression -upon a face I admire more than yours. Suppose you felt you had seen--" - -"What I could never forget, nor cease to love," I answered, fast and -eagerly; I _could_ not let her say it, or anything just there,--"I -should earnestly learn his nature, should fill myself to the brim with -his beauty, just as with his music. I should feel that in keeping my -heart pure, above all from envy, and my life most like his life, I -should be approaching nearer than any earthly tie could lead me, -should become worthy of his celestial communion, of his immortal, his -heavenly tendencies. Nor should I regret to suffer,--to suffer for his -sake." - -I used these last words--themselves so well remembered--without -remembering who said them for me first, till I had fairly spoken; then -I, too, longed to weep: Maria's voice was trembling in my brain, a -ghostly music. As Laura answered, the ghostly music passed, even as a -wind shaken and scattered upon the sea. It was earth again, as vague, -scarcely less lonely! - -"A worldly man would mock. You do not a much wiser thing, but you do -it for the best. I will try to hide it forever, for there is, indeed, -no hope." - -Half imploring, this was hardly a question; yet I answered,-- - -"I do believe none." - -"You are cold, not cruel. I would rather know the truth. Yes! I would -hide it forever; I will not even speak of it to you." - -"Even from yourself hide it, if it must be hidden at all. And yet, I -always think that a hidden sorrow is the best companion we can have." - -"I am very selfish. I know that if Miss Lawrence finds out I am with -you, you will not like it. You had better let me go downstairs." - -"I will go myself, if you prefer to be alone; but you must not move." - -"I must move,--I will not be found here; I had quite forgotten that. I -will go this moment." - -I did not dream of her actually departing; but before I could -remonstrate further, she had planted herself lightly upon the carpet, -and looked as well as usual: it was nothing extraordinary to see her -pale. She smoothed her long hair at my glass, and arranged her dress; -she shook hands with me afterwards also, and then she left the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -I was really alone now, but had a variety of worrying thoughts, -hunting each other to death, but reproducing each other by thousands. -I was irate with Laura, though I felt very sad, but of all most vexed -that such an incident should have befallen my experience on that crown -of days. The awful power of a single soul struggled, in my -apprehension, with the vain weakness of a single heart. But more -overpowering than either was the sensation connecting the two. It was -a remembrance that I, too, might be called to suffer. - -At last Miss Lawrence sent to know whether I chose my dinner. Her own -hour was six, and just at hand; but I felt so extremely disinclined to -eat that I thought I would refuse, and take a walk another way. Miss -Lawrence was one of those persons--gladdening souls are they!--who -mean exactly what they say, and expect you to say exactly what you -mean; thus I had no difficulty in explaining that I preferred to take -this walk, though it was not, after all, a walk _semplice_, for I was -bound to the cottage, and desired to reach it as soon as possible. - -I met Miss Lawrence on the stairs, and she charged me to take care of -Laura. I could not refuse, of course, and we drove in one of those -delightful cabs that so effectually debar from connected conversation. -I was glad for once, though I need not have troubled myself to -descant, for Laura, in a great green veil, opened not her lips twice, -nor once looked towards me. - -We dismissed the conveyance at the entrance of the hamlet, and walked -up together, still silent. It was about half-past seven then, and -vivid as at morning the atmosphere, if not the light. Unclouded -sunshine swept the clustered leaves of the intense June foliage, -heavy-tressed laburnum wore it instead of blossoms; but from the -secluded shade of the wayside gardens pierced the universal scent of -roses above all other fragrance except the limes, which hung their -golden bells out here and there, dropping their singular perfume all -lights alike. - -I saw Seraphael's house first, and returned to it after leaving Laura -at that other white gate. All our windows were open, the breeze blew -over a desert of flowers,--all was "fairy-land forlorn." I felt -certain no one could be at home. I was right here. I could not enter. -I was drawn to that other gate,--I entered. Thoné opened the door, -looking quite as eastern in the western beams. - -"Is Miss Benette at home?" - -"I will see." For Thoné could spell out a little English now. She went -and saw. - -"Yes, sir, to you; and she wishes to see you." - -It was the first time Thoné had ever called me "sir," and I felt very -grand. A strange, subtile fancy, sweeter than the sweetest hope, -sprang daringly within me. But a crushing fear uprose, it swelled and -darkened,--my butterfly was broken upon that wheel; those rooms so -bright and festal, the air and sunshine falling upon clustered -flowers, upon evening freshness as at morning, were not, could not be, -for me! I advanced to the open piano, its glittering sheets outspread, -its smiling keys. - -Hardly had I felt myself alone before one other entered. Alas, I was -still alone! Clara herself approached me, less calm than I had ever -seen her; her little hand was chilled as if by the rough kisses of an -eastern wind, though the south air fanned our summer; there was -agitation in her whole air, but more excitement. I had never seen her -excited; I had not been aware how strangely I should feel to see her -touched so deeply. - -"Mr. Auchester, it must have been Heaven who sent you here to-night, -for I wanted to see you more than anybody, and was expecting some one -else. I never thought I should see you first; I wished it so very -much." - -"Miss Benette, if it were in my power I would give you all you wish, -for the sake only of hearing you wish but once. I am grateful to be -able to fulfil your wishes in the very least degree. What is it -now?"--for her lip quivered like an infant's, and one tear stood in -each of her blue eyes. She wiped away those dew-drops that I would -have caught upon my heart, and answered, her voice of music all quiet -now,-- - -"I have had a strange letter from the gentleman you love so well. I do -not feel equal to what he asks,--that is, I am not deserving; but -still I must answer it; and after what you said to me last time you -were so kind as to talk to me, I do not think it right to overlook -it." - -"I may not see the letter? I do not desire it; but suffer me to -understand clearly what it is about exactly, if you do not think me -too young, Miss Benette." - -"Sir, I always feel as if you were older, and I rely upon you. I will -do as you please; I wish to do so only. This letter is to ask me to -marry him. Oh! how differently I felt when I was asked to marry Mr. -Davy!" - -"Yes, I rather suppose so. You are ready to reply?" - -"Not quite. I had not considered such a thing, and should have thought -first of marrying a king or an angel." - -"He is above all kings, Miss Benette; and if he loves you, no angel's -happiness could be like your own. But is it so wholly unexpected?" - -"I never imagined it, sir, for one single moment; nor could any woman -think he would prefer her. Of course, as he is above all others, he -has only to choose where he pleases." - -I could not look at her as she spoke; I dared not trust myself,--the -most thrilling irony pointed her delicate, lovesome tones. I know not -that she knew it, but I did; it cut me far deeper than to the heart, -and through and through my spirit the wound made way. No tampering, -however, with "oil and balsams" here! - -"Wherever he pleases, I should say. No one he could choose could fail -(I should imagine) in pleasing him to please herself." - -She retorted, more tenderly: "I think it awful to remember that I may -not be worthy, that I may make him less happy than he now is, instead -of more so." - -"Only love him!" - -"But such a great difference! He will not always walk upon the earth. -I cannot be with him when he is up so high." - -"I only say the same. He needs a companion for his earthly hours; then -only is it he is alone. His hours of elevation require no sympathy to -fill them; they are not solitude." - -"I will do as you please, sir, for it must be right. Do you not wish -you were in my place?" She smiled softly upon me, just lifting her -lovely eyes. - -"Miss Benette, I know no one but yourself who could fill those hours I -spoke of, nor any one but that beloved and glorious one who is worthy -to fill your heart _all_ hours. More I cannot say, for the whole -affair has taken me by surprise." - -I had, indeed, been stricken by shock upon shock that day; but the -last remained to me when the wailings of misfortune, the echoes of my -bosom-music, alike had left my brain. I could not speak, and we both -sat silent, side by side, until the sun in setting streamed into the -room. Then, as I rose to lower the blind, and was absent from her at -the window, I heard a knock,--I had, or ought to have, expected it; -yet it turned me from head to foot, it thrilled me through and -through. I well knew the hand that had raised the echoes like a salute -of fairy cannon. I well knew the step that danced into the hall. I was -gone through the open window, not even looking back. I ran to the -bottom of the garden; I made for the Queen's highway; I walked -straight back to London. - -There was a great party in Miss Lawrence's, I knew it from the corner -of the square; and I had to leave the lustrous darkness, the sleepy -stars and great suffusing moonshine, the very streets filled full and -overflowing with waftures of fragrances from the country, dim yet so -delicious, for that terrible drawing-room. I took advantage of the -excitement, however, that distressed me as it never burned before, to -plunge instantly into a duet for violin and piano; Miss Lawrence -calling me to her by the white spell of her waving hand the very -moment I entered at the drawing-room door. My duet, her noble playing, -made me myself, _as ever music saves her own_, and I conducted myself -rather less like a nightmare than I felt. The party consisted of -first-rate amateurs, the flower of the morning festival, both from -orchestra and audience,--all enchanted, all wordy, except my precious -Davy, who was very pale, and Starwood, whose eyes almost went into his -head with pain. - -We all did our best, though. Starwood played most beautifully, and in -a style which made me glory over him. Davy sang, though his voice was -rather nervous. A great many people came up to me, but they got -nothing out of me. I could not descant upon my religion. When at -length they descended to supper,--a miscellaneous meal, which Miss -Lawrence always provided in great state,--I thought I might be -permitted to retire. Will it be believed that, half an hour -afterwards, hearing my sister and Davy come up leisurely to bed, and -peeping out to see them, I heard Millicent distinctly say, "I hope -baby is asleep"? I was to return with them on the morrow; but directly -after breakfast Miss Lawrence made me one of her signs, and led me -thereby, without controlling me hand or foot, out of the -breakfast-room. We were soon alone together in the studio. - -"I thought you would like to be here this morning, for Seraphael has -promised to come and see it. I think myself that he will be rather -surprised." - -I could not help smiling at her tone, it was so unaffectedly -satisfied. - -"I should think he will, Miss Lawrence." - -"I don't mean as to the merits of the picture, but because he does not -know it is--what shall I say?--historical, biographical, allegorical." - -"You mean hieroglyphic?" - -"Exactly." - -"But he will not be likely to say anything about that part of it, will -he? Is he not too modest or too proud?" - -"Why, one never can know what he can say or do. I should not wonder -the least in the world if he took the brushes up and put the eyes in -open." - -I laughed. "Does he paint, though?" - -"Between ourselves, Mr. Auchester, there is nothing he cannot do,--no -accomplishment in which he does not excel. He can paint, can design, -can model, can harmonize all languages into a language of his own. All -mysteries, all knowledge, all wisdom, we know too well,--too well, -indeed!--dwell with him, are of him. I am always afraid when I -consider these things. What a blessing to us and to all men if he -would only marry! We should keep him a little longer then." - -"Do you think so? I am fearful it would make no real difference. There -is a point where all sympathy ceases." - -Miss Lawrence shook her head, a lull came over the animation of her -manner; she hastened to arrange her scenery, now unique. She had -placed before the picture a velvet screen, deep emerald and grass-like -in its shade; this veil stood out alone, for she had cleared away all -signs of picture, sketch, or other frame besides. Nothing was in the -room but the picture on its lofty easel, and the loftier velvet shade. -I appreciated to the full the artist tact of the veil itself, and said -so. - -"I think," was her reply, "it will be more likely to please him if I -keep him waiting a little bit, and his curiosity is touched a moment." - -And then we went downstairs. Davy, who always had occupation on hand, -and would not have been destitute of duty on the shore of a desert -island, was absent in the city; Millicent, who had taken her work to a -window, was stitching the most delicate wristband in Europe, inside -the heavy satin curtain, as comfortably as in her tiny home. Miss -Lawrence went and stood by her, entertained her enchantingly, -eternally reminding her of her bliss by Mrs. Davying till I could but -laugh; but still my honored hostess was very impetuously excited, for -her eyes sparkled as most eyes only light by candle-shine or the -setting sun. She twisted the tassel of the blind, too, till I thought -the silk cord would have snapped; but Millicent only looked up -gratefully at her, without the slightest sign of astonishment or -mystification. - -"Charles!" exclaimed my sister at length, when Miss Lawrence, fairly -exhausted with talking, was gathering up her gown into folds and -extempore plaits plaits--"Charles! you will be ready at two o'clock, -and we shall get home to tea." - -I could not be angry with her for thinking of her baby, her little -house, her heaven of home; but there was a going back to winter for me -in the idea of going away. The music seemed dead, not slumbering, that -I had heard the day before. But is this strange? For there is a -slumber we call death. About half-past ten a footman fetched Miss -Lawrence. She touched my arm, apologizing to Millicent, though not -explaining, and we left the room together. She sent me onwards to the -studio, and went downstairs alone. I soon heard them coming -up,--indeed, I expected them directly; for Seraphael never waited for -anything, and never lost a moment. They were talking, and when he -entered he did not at first perceive me. His face was exquisite. A -charm softened the Hebrew keenness, that was not awful, like the -passion music stirring the hectic, or spreading its white light. He -was flushed, but more as a child that has been playing until it is -weary; his eyes, dilated, were of softer kindness than the brain gives -birth to,--his happy yet wayward smile, as if he rejoiced because -self-willing to rejoice. His clear gaze, his eager footstep, reminded -me of other days when he trembled on the verge of manhood; it was, -indeed, as a man that he shone before me that morning, and had never -shone before. They stood now before the screen, and I was astonished -at the utter self-possession of the paintress; she only watched his -face, and seemed to await his wishes. - -"That screen is very beautiful velvet, and very beautifully made. Am I -never to look at anything else? Is nothing hidden behind it? I have -been very good, Miss Lawrence, and I waited very patiently; I do not -think I can wait any longer. May I pull it away?" - -"Sir, most certainly. It is for you to do so at your pleasure. I am -not afraid either, though you will think me not over-modest." - -Seraphael touched the screen,--it was massive, and resisted his little -hand; he became impatient. Miss Lawrence only laughed, but I rushed -out of my corner to help him. Before he looked at the picture he gave -me that little hand and a smile of his very own. - -"Look, dearest sir!" I cried, "pray look now!" - -And indeed he looked; and indeed, I shall not forget it. It was so -strange to turn from the living lineaments--the eye of the sun and -starlight, the brilliant paleness, the changeful glow, the look of -intense and concentrated vitality upon temple and lip and skin--to the -still, immortal visage, the aspect of glory beyond the grave, the -lustre unearthly, but not of death, that struck from those breathless -lips, those snow-sealed eyes; and, above all, to see that the light -seemed not to descend from the crown upon the forehead, but to aspire -from the forehead to the crown,--so the rays were mixed and fused -into the idea of that eternity in which there shall be a new earth -besides another heaven! That transcending picture, how would it affect -him? I little knew; for as he stood and gazed, he grew more like it. -The smile faded, the deep melancholy I had seldom seen, and never -without a shudder, swept back; as the sun goes into a cloud his face -assumed a darklier paleness, he appeared to suffer, but did not speak. -In some minutes still, he started, turned to Miss Lawrence, and -sighing gently, as gently said,-- - -"I wish I were more like it! I wish I were as that is! But we may not -dream dreams, though we may paint pictures. I should like to deserve -your idea, but I do not at present. Happy for us all who build upon -the future as you have done in that painting,--I mean entirely as to -the perfection of the work." - -"Have I your permission to keep it, sir?" - -"What else, madam, would you do with it?" - -"Oh! if you had not approved, I should have slashed it into pieces -with a carving-knife or my father's razor. I shall keep it, with your -permission; it will be very valuable and precious, and I have to thank -you for the inestimable privilege of possessing it." - -This cool treatment of Miss Lawrence's delighted me,--it was the only -one to restore our Chevalier. He, indeed, returned unto his rest, for -he left the house that moment. Nor could I have desired him to -remain,--there was only one presence in which I cared to imagine -him.... - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -The day had come and gone when Clara, for the first time, dressed in -white. The sun-grain of August had kissed the corn, the -golden-drooping sheaves waved through the land fresh cut, and the -latest roses mixed pale amidst the lilies beneath the bounteous -harvest-moon when she left us,--but not alone. It was like dying twice -over to part with them that once, and therefore it will not be -believed how soon I could recover the farewell and feed upon Clara's -letters, which never failed me once a month. For a year they more -sustained me than anything else could have done; for they told of a -life secluded as any who loved _him_ could desire for him, and not -more free from pain than care. Of herself she never spoke, except to -breathe sweet wishes for her friends; but her whole soul seemed bent -upon his existence, and her descriptions were almost a diary. I could -not be astonished at her influence, for it had governed my best days; -but that she should be able to secure such a boon to us as a year of -unmitigated repose for him, was precisely what I had not anticipated, -nor dared to expect. Meanwhile, and during that year, our work was -harder than ever. Davy and I were quite unconscious of progressing, -yet were perfectly happy, and as ever determined,--indeed, nothing -like a slight contumacy on the part of the pupils kept Davy up to the -mark. From Starwood, who had returned to Germany, I also received -accounts; but he was no letter-writer, except when there was anything -very particular to say. He was still a student, and still under -Seraphael's roof. Strange and Arabian dreams were those I had of that -house in the heart of a country so far away, for the Chevalier had -moved nearer the Rhine, and nothing in his idiosyncrasy so betokened -the Oriental tincture of his blood as his restless fondness for making -many homes while he was actually at home in none. - -We lived very happily, as I said. It was, perhaps, not extraordinary -that to my violin I grew more infinitely attached, was one with it, -and could scarcely divide myself from it. I lived at home still,--that -is, I slept at home, and usually ate there; but Davy's house was also -home,--it had grown dearer to me than ever, and was now fairer. The -summer after our friends had left us was brilliant as the last, and -now the shell was almost hidden by the clinging of the loveliest -creepers; the dahlias in the garden had given place to standard -rose-trees, and though Carlotta could not reach them, she had learned -to say, "Rose!" and to put up her pretty hand for me to pluck her one. -With a flower she would sit and play an entire morning, and we never -had any trouble with her. Millicent worked and studied as conveniently -as though she had never been born; for it was Davy's supreme wish to -educate his daughter at home, and her mamma had very elaborate ideas -of self-culture in anticipation. During that autumn we found ourselves -making some slight way. Davy took it into his head to give utterance, -for the first time, to a public concert; and I will not say I was -myself averse. We had a great deal of conversation and a great many -sessions on the subject, not exactly able to settle whether we would -undertake a selection or some entire work. Our people were rather -revived out of utter darkness concerning music; but its light was -little diffused, and seemed condensed in our class-room as a focus. -The band and chorus, of course, made great demonstrations in favor of -the "Messiah;" and my mother, who had taken an extraordinary interest -in the affair, said, innocently enough,-- - -"Then why, my dears, not represent the 'Messiah'? It will be at -Christmas time, and very suitable." - -This was not the point, for Davy had reminded me of the fact that the -festival for the approaching year at the centre of the town would open -with that work,--unless, indeed, the committee departed from their -precedent on all former occasions. My idea would have been a -performance all Bach, Beethoven, and Seraphael, with Handel's Ode for -a commencement, on the 22d of November; but Davy shook his head at -me,--"That would be for Germany, not for England;" and I obliged -myself to believe him. At length we accepted the "Messiah,"--to the -great delight of the chorus and band. - -It was a pressing time all through that autumn. I do not suppose I -ever thought of anything but fiddles, fiddles, fiddles, from morning -till night. They edged my dreams with music, and sometimes with that -which was very much the reverse of music; for we had our difficulties. -Prejudice is best destroyed by passion, which as yet we had not -kindled. Davy met with little support, and no sympathy, except from -his own,--this mattered little either, so long as his own were -concerned; but now, in prospect of our illustration, it was necessary -to secure certain instrumental assistance. - -I undertook to do this. Besides my own strings, we had brass and wind, -but not sufficient. I shall not forget the difficulty of thawing the -players I visited--I will not call them artists--into anything like -genial participation. Their engagement was not sufficiently formal, -nor did they like me,--I suppose they owed a grudge against my youth; -for youth is unpardonable and inadmissible, except in the case of -genius. Neither did they thaw, any more than the weather, on Christmas -Eve,--it was on Christmas Eve we were to perform. It was an eve of -ice, not snow,--the blue sky silvery, the earth bound fast in sleep. -We had hired a ball-room at the chief hotel,--an elegant and rather -rare room; it was warmed by three wide fire-places; and the crimson -curtains closed, with the chairs instead of benches, gave a social and -unusual charm to the whole proceeding. - -If our audience entered aghast, looked frozen, rolled in furs and -contempts, they could not help smiling upon the fires, the roseate -glow; though they also could not help being disconcerted to find -themselves treated all alike, for Davy would have no roseate seats, -nor any exclusiveness on this occasion. As he intended, besides, to -restore the work exactly as it was first written, we expected a little -cold and a few black looks. No modern listeners can receive an -oratorio as orthodox without an organ of Titan-build in the very -middle that takes care to sound. - -The overture, beautifully played, was taken down with chill -politeness; but my own party were so pleased with themselves, and made -such ecstatic motions with their features that it was quite enough for -me. The first chorus was lightly, delicately shown up, not -extinguished by the orchestra--and, indeed, chorus after chorus found -no more favor; still, no one could help feeling the perfect training -here. I knew as well as Davy envy or pride alone kept back the free -confession. The exquisite shading in the chorus, the public's -darling, "Unto us a child is born," and the grandeur of the final -effect, subdued them a little. They cheered, and Davy gave me a glance -over his shoulder which I understood to say, "One must come in for -certain disadvantages if one is well received;" for Davy abhorred a -noise as much as I did. When we waited between the parts, some one -fetched Davy away in an immense hurry; he did not return immediately, -and I grew alarmed. I peeped into the concert-room: there sat -Millicent most composedly, and Lydia with her lord, and Clo in her -dove-colored silk and spectacles, and my mother in her black satin and -white-kid gloves, looking crowned with happiness; it was evident that -nothing was the matter at home. But having a few minutes, I went to -speak to them; and then my mother, in her surmises about Davy, whom -she loved as her own son--and Clo, whose principles were flattered, -not shocked, in her approval--took up so much time that I was at last -obliged to fly to my little band, who were assembled again, and tuning -by fits. Still, Davy was not there. But presently, and just at the -moment when it was necessary to begin, he appeared, so looking that I -was sure either something very dread or very joyous had befallen him. -His eye gazed brightly out to the whole room as he faced instead of -turning from it. He could not help smiling, and his voice quivered as -he spoke. He said in those fond accents,-- - -"I have the pleasure to announce that the Chevalier Seraphael, having -just arrived from Germany on a visit to myself, has consented to -conduct the second part himself." - -I had been sure the Chevalier was in him before he spoke, but I little -thought how it would come about. Immediately he finished speaking, -the curtain above us divided, and that heavenly inspired one stood -before us. - -There was that in his apparition which stirred the slowest and burned -upon the coldest pulses. All rose and shouted with an enthusiasm, when -elicited from English hearts perhaps more real and touching than any -other; a quickening change, like sudden summer, swept the room; the -music became infinitely at home there; we all felt as if, watching -over the dead, we had seen the dead alive again; the "old familiar -strains" untired us, and none either wearied among the listeners. I -could not, in the trances of my own playing, forbear to worship the -gentle knowledge that had led the hierarch to that humble shrine, to -consecrate and ennoble it forever. But the event told even sooner than -I expected; for lo! at the end, when the Chevalier turned his kingly -head and bowed to the reiterated applaudings, and had passed out, -those plaudits continued, and would not cease till Davy was recalled -himself; the pent-up reverence, restored to its proper channel, eddied -in streams around him. - -What an evening we spent, or rather what a night we made that -night!--in that little parlor of Davy's the little green-house thrown -open, and lighted by Millicent with Carlotta's Christmas-candles; the -supper, where there was hardly room for us all at the table, and -hardly room upon the table for all the good things my mother sent for -from her pantry and larder and store-closet; the decoration of the -house with green wreaths and holly-bunches, the swept and garnished -air of the entire tiny premises standing us in such good stead to -welcome the Christmas visitant with Christmas festivity; the punch -Davy mixed in Carlotta's christening-bowl, my mother's present, she -perfectly radiant, and staring with satisfaction in the arm-chair, -where Seraphael himself had placed her as we closed around the fire; -the Christmas music never wanting, for in the midst of our joyous talk -a sudden celestial serenade, a deep-voiced carol, burst from beyond -the garden, and looking out there, we beheld, through rimed and -frost-glazed windows, a clustered throng, whose voices were not -uncultured,--the warmest-hearted members of Davy's own. They were -still singing when Carlotta awoke and cried, had to be brought down -stairs, and was hushed, listening, in Seraphael's arms. - -So, after all, we did not go to bed that night, for it was quite two -o'clock when I escorted my mother and sisters home, having left the -little room I usually occupied when I slept at my brother's house for -Seraphael, whom no one would suffer to sleep at the hotel. I might -remind myself of the next day, too, and I surely may,--of our all -going to church together after a night of snow, over the sheeted white -beneath a cloudless heaven; of our all sitting together in that large -pew of ours, and the excitement prevailing among the congregation -afterwards as they assured themselves of our guest; of the chimes -swelling high from the tower as we returned, and my walk alone with -Seraphael to show him where Clara's house had stood. When we were, -indeed, alone together, I asked more especially after her, and -listened to his tender voice when it told of her that she was not then -strong enough to cross the sea, but that though he could only leave -her for a week, it was her latest request that he would come to see us -all himself, nor return without having done so. And then he spoke of -the affairs that had brought him over,--an entreaty from the committee -of our own town festival that he would direct that of the coming year, -and compose exclusively for it. - -It made me very indignant at first that they should have kept Davy so -entirely in the dark as to their intentions, because he had been -forewarned on all previous occasions, before his influence was so -strong in his own circle. But when I expressed a little my -indignation, Seraphael only laughed, and said,-- - -"It was what every one must expect who was such a purist, unless he -would also condescend to amuse the people at times and seasons, or -unless he were not _poor_." - -My obligation to accede here made me yet more indignant, until I -remembered how Seraphael had introduced himself, and so taken Davy by -the hand that it would not be likely for him ever again to be thrust -back into obscurity afterwards, were it only because Seraphael himself -was _rich_. - -"And will you come to us, sir?" I asked, scarcely able to frame a wish -upon the subject. - -"If I live, Carlomein. And I do hope to live--till then, at least. I -have also been rather idle lately, and must work. Indeed, I have -brought nothing with me, except a psalm or two for your brother. We -may write music to psalms, I suppose, Carlomein?" - -"You may, sir, and, indeed, anybody may; for whatever is worthless -will be forgotten, and whatever is worthy will live forever." - -"It is not that anything we offer can be worthy of the feet at which -we lay it, it is not that anything is sweet or sufficient for our -love's expression, but every little word of love and smile of love is -precious to us, and must be so to Love itself, I think. Only in music -now does God reveal himself as in the days of old; and I do believe, -Carlomein, that he, dwelling not in temples made with hands, yet -dwelleth there. I suppose it may be that as we make the music that -issues from the orchestra, or from the organ where all musics mingle, -so he makes the love that religion burns to utter, but that music, for -the musical, alone makes manifest. All worship is sacred, but that is -unutterably holy. How holy should the heart of the musician be!" - -"Dearest sir, forgive me! If you had not spoken so, I could not have -presumed to ask you. But do you, therefore, object to write for the -stage, in its present promiscuous position among the arts?" - -"Carlomein, the drama is my greatest delight. The dramatic genius I -would ever accept as a guide and standard; but from youth upwards, I -have ever abstained from writing for the stage. It does not suit me; -it is in some respects beyond me,--that is, as it ought to exist. But -my days are numbered,--I have lately known it; and to give forth opera -after opera would reduce my short span to a mere holiday task. I am -too happy, Carlomein, and to you I will say it,--too blest in that I -feel I can best express what others left to me because expression -failed them." - -"Oh, dearest sir, it is so, and not alone in music, but in everything -you touch or tell us! Yet you are ours for years and years. I feel -it,--there is so much to be done, and you only can do it; so much to -learn yet of what you only can teach us. You cannot, you will not, and -are not going to leave us! I know it; I could not be so if I did not -know and feel it. You are looking better than when even first I saw -you--all those years ago." - -"I am well, Carlomein,--I have never been ill. I do not know sickness, -though I have known sorrow,--thank God for that inexpressible mystery -in which his light is hidden! But, Carlomein, you speak as if it were -of all things the saddest thing to die! I know not that sensation; I -believe it to be mere sensation. Neither is this earth a -wilderness,--no weariness! There is not an air of spring that does not -make me long for death; the burdening gladness is too much for life, -and summer and winter call me. Eternity without years is ever present -with me, and the poor music they love so well, they love because it -comes to me from beyond the grave." - -I could not hear him speak so; it killed me to all but a ravishment of -fear. I could not help saying, though I fear it was out of place,-- - -"There is one you must not leave; she cannot live without you." - -"Carlomein, any one can live who is to live, and whoever is decreed -must die. There is no death for me,--I do not call it so; nor do I -believe that death could touch me. I mean I should not know it, for I -could not bear it; and I fear it not, for nothing we cannot bear is -given us to endure." - -"Sir, if I did not revere too much every word you utter, I should say -that a morbid presentiment clouds your enthusiasm, and that you know -not what you say." - -"Do I look morbid, Carlomein? That is an ugly word, and you deserve it -as much as I do, pale-face." - -He laughed out joyously. I looked at him again. How his eyes radiated -their splendors, as an eastern starlight in a northern sky! How the -blossom-blushes rose upon his cheek! Health, joy, vitality, all the -flowers of manhood, the fairest laurels of an unsullied fame, shone -visionary about him. He seemed no earthling "born to die." I could not -but smile; still, it was at his beauty, not his mirth. - -"Sir, you don't look much like a martyr now." - -"Carlomein. I should rather be a martyr than a saint. The saints are -robed in glory, but the glory streams from heaven upon the martyr's -face." (Oh, he could feel no pain, with that light there; I know he -felt none.) "The saints wear lilies, or they dream so; and dream they -not the martyrs wear the roses,--have not the thorns pierced through -them? They are thornless roses there, for passion is made perfect." - -"Sir, but I do think that the musician, if duteous, is meet for a -starry crown." - -"And I could only think, when I saw that picture, that the crown was -not mine own; but I dreamed within myself that it should not be in -vain I desire to deserve the crown which I should wear, but not that -star-crown. Poetry may be forgiven for hiding sorrow in bliss, but it -is only music that hides bliss with sorrow. And see, Carlomein (for we -are in a tale of dreams just now, and both alone), there have been -martyrs for all faiths,--for love, for poetry, for patriotism, for -religion. Oh! for what cause, where passion strikes and stirs, have -there not been martyrs? But I think music has not many, and those were -discrowned of that glory by the other crown of Fame. Shall I die -young, and not be believed to have died for music? For that end must -the music be rapt and purified,--stolen from itself; its pleasures -must be strong to pain, its exercises sharper than agony. I know of -none other choice for myself than to press forwards to fulfil the call -I have heard since music spoke to me, and was as the voice of God. -There is so much to undo in very doing, while those who were not -called, but have only chosen music, defile her mysteries, that the few -who are called must surely witness for her. We will not speak again -so, Carlomein. I have made your young face careful, and I would rather -see scorn work upon it than such woe. I am now going to a shop. Are -there any shops here, Carlomein?" - -"Plenty, sir, but they are closed; still, I am certain you can get -anything you want, no matter what." - -"I have something to make to-night which is most important, and I must -have nuts, apples, and sugar-plums." - -We went to a large confectioner's whose windows were but -semi-shuttered. Here the Chevalier quite lost himself in the treasures -of those glass magazines. I should scarcely have known him as he had -been. He chose very selectly, nathless, securing only the most -delicate and rare of the wonders spread about him, and which excited -his _naïveté_ to the utmost. His choice comprised all crisp white -comfits and red-rose ones, almond-eggs, the most ravishing French -bonbons, all sorts of chocolate, myriad sugar millions, like rain from -fairy rainbows, twisted green angelica, golden strips of crystallized -orange-peal, not to speak of rout-cakes like fish and frogs and mice -and birds' nests. Nor did these suffice; off we walked to the -toy-shop. Our town was of world renown for its toys. Here it was not -so easy to effect an entrance; but it _was_ effected the moment the -Chevalier showed his face. To this hour I believe they took him in -there for some extraordinary little boy,--he certainly behaved like -nothing else. He bought now beads of all colors, and spangles and -shining leaf, and of all things the most exquisite doll, -small-featured, waxen, dressed already in long white robes, and lying -in a cradle about a foot long, perfectly finished. And next, besides -this baby's baby, he snatched at a box of letters, then at a gilt -watch, and finally at a magic-lantern. We so loaded ourselves with all -these baubles that we could scarcely get along; for, with his wonted -impetuosity on the least occasions, he would not suffer anything to be -sent, lest it should not arrive in time. And then, though I reminded -him of the dinner-hour at hand, there was to be no rest yet, but I -must take him to some garden or nursery of winter-plants. Fortunately, -a great friend of Davy's in that line lived very near him; for Davy -was a great flower-fancier. This was convenient; for had it been two -miles off, Seraphael would have run there, being in his uttermost -wayward mood. He chose a gem of a fir-tree, and though both the -florist and I remonstrated with our whole hearts, would carry it -himself,--happily not very far. I was reminded of dear old Aronach's -story about his child-days as I saw him clasp it in his delicate arms -so nerved with power, and caught his brilliant face through the spires -of the foliage. Thus we approached Davy's house, and I reminded the -Chevalier that we were expected to dine at my mother's, not there. In -fact, poor Millicent, in her bonnet, looked out anxiously from the -door; the Chevalier called to her as she ran to open the gate, "See, -Mrs. Davy, see! Here's 'Birnam Wood come to Dunisnane.' Make way!" - -"You are very naughty," said Davy, stepping forth. "Our beloved mamma -will be coming after us." - -"It is very rude, I know; but I am going to dine with your daughter." - -"My daughter is coming too. Did you think we should leave her behind?" - -Millicent was about, in fact, to mount the stairs for the baby; but -Seraphael rushed past her. - -"Pardon! but I don't wish to be seen at present;" and we both bore our -burdens into the parlor, and laid them on the table. - -"Now, Carlomein, the moment dinner is over, we two shall come back and -lock ourselves in here." - -"I should like it of all things, sir, selfish wretch that I am! but I -don't think they will." - -"Oh, yes, I will make them!" - -When at last we descended ready, Carlotta, in her white beaver bonnet, -my own present, looked as soft as any snowdrop,--too soft almost to be -kissed. She held out her arms to Seraphael so very pertinaciously that -he was obliged to carry her; nor would he give her up until we reached -my mother's door. It was quite the same at dinner also; she would sit -next him, would stick her tiny fork into his face, with a morsel of -turkey at the end of it, would poke crumbs into his mouth with her -finger, would put up her lips to kiss him, would say, every moment, "I -like you much-much!" with all Davy's earnestness, though with just so -much of her mother's modesty as made her turn pink and shy, and put -herself completely over her chair into Seraphael's lap, when he -laughed at her. He was in ecstasies, and every now and then a shade so -tender stole upon his air that I knew he could only be adverting to -the tenderest of all human probabilities,--the dream of his next -year's offspring. - -After dinner, Miss was to retire. She was carried upstairs by -Margareth, of whom I can only say she loved Carlotta better than she -had loved Carl. Seraphael then arose, and gracefully, gleefully, -despite the solicitations on all hands exhibited, declared he must -also go, that he had to meet the Lord Chancellor, and could not keep -him waiting. There was no more prayer wasted after this announcement, -everybody laughed too much. Taking a handful of nuts from a dish, and -throwing a glance of inexpressible elfishness at my mother, he said, -"Carl and the Lord Chancellor and I are going to crack them in a -corner. Come, Carlomein! we must not keep so grand a person waiting." -I know not what blank he left behind him, but I know what a world he -carried with him. We had such an afternoon! But we had to be really -very busy; I never worked so hard in a small way. When all was -finished, the guilt fruit hung, the necklaces festooned, the glitter -ordered with that miraculous rapidity in which he surpassed all -others, and that fairy craft of his by which he was enabled to -re-create all Arabian, mystical, he placed the cradle in the shade. - -"You see, Carlomein, I could not have a Christ-child up there at the -top, because your brother is rather particular, and might not choose -to approve. It will never occur to him about the manger, if we don't -tell him; but you perceive all the same that it is here, being made of -straw, and very orthodox." - -"It appears to me, sir, that you have learned English customs to some -purpose, as well as German." - -He replied by dancing round the tree, and twisting in the tapers red -and green. - -"Now, you go, Carlomein, and fetch them all, and when I hear your -voices, I will light the candles. Begone, Carlomeinus!" and he snapped -his fingers. - -They came immediately, all rather mystified, but very curious. I -carried Carlotta, who talked the whole way home about the stars. But -after clustering a few moments in the dark passage, and her little -whispered "ohs!" and wondering sighs, when the door was opened, and -the arch musician for all ages, seated at the piano, played a measure -only meet for child or fairy ears, her ecstasy became quite painful. -She shuddered and shivered, and at last screamed outright; and then, -even then, only Seraphael had power to soothe her, leading her to the -fairy earth-lights as he led us to the lights of heaven. - - * * * * * - -Glorious hours that dye deep our memories in beauty, music that passes -into echo and is silent, alike are conserved forever. Often and often -in the months that passed when he had left us, after a visit so -exquisite that it might have been diffused millenniums and yet have -kept its fragrance, did my thoughts take such a form as this -enunciation bears; I was so unutterably grateful for what had happened -that it helped me to bear what was yet before me. The growing, glowing -fame, heralded from land to land, in praise of that young genius and -purest youth, had certainly reached its culmination; neither envy -withered nor scandal darkened the spell of his perfect name. All -grades of artists, all ranks of critics,--the old and calm, the -impertinent but impetuous young,--bowed as in heart before him. It was -so in every city, I believe; but in ours it was peculiar, as well as -universal. An odor of heavenly altars had swept our temple; we were -fitter to receive him than we had been. In no instance was this shown -more clearly than on the fortunate occasion when Davy was treated -with, and requested very humbly to add his vocal regiment to the -festival chorus. One day just afterwards, in early April, he came -running to me with a letter, anxious for me to open it, as he was in a -fit of fright about the parts which ought to have arrived, and had -not. It was only a line or two, addressed to me by Seraphael's hand, -to tell us that Clara had borne him twin sons. - -Davy's astonishment amused me; it appeared that he had formed no idea -of their having been likely to come at all, until this moment. I was -glad, indeed, to be alone, to think of that fairest friend of mine, -now so singularly blest. I thought of her in bed with her babies, I -thought of the babies being his, and she no less his own, until I was -not fit company for any one,--and it was long before I became so. I -could hardly believe it, and more especially because they were all -four so far away; for I am not of the opinion of those fortunate -transcendentalists, who aver we can better realize that which is away -from us than that which is at hand. Time and space must remain to us -our eternity and our freedom, till freedom and eternity shall be our -own. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -We were extremely busy, for a little while, in preparing a box of -presents, and when it was despatched we began seriously to anticipate -our awful, glorious festival; we began to have leisure to contemplate -it. It was a delightful dream, amidst that dream, to reflect that we -should see them all then, for Seraphael sent us word, in his grateful -reply to our enclosures, that both his children and their mother would -accompany him. Meantime, I was very anxious to spread the news abroad, -and most extraordinary appointments were made by all kinds of people -to secure places. I began to think, and had I been in Germany should, -of course, have settled to my own satisfaction, that the performances -must be in the open air, after all, such crowds demanded admittance so -early as early in June. It was for the last week in July that our -triple day was fixed, and in the second week of June the long-expected -treasure, the exclusive compositions, arrived from Lilienstadt. Davy -was one of the committee called immediately, and I awaited, in -unuttered longing, his return, to hear our glorious doom. - -He came back almost wild. I was quite alarmed, and told him so. - -"Charles," he said, "there is almost reason; so am I, myself, in fact. -Just listen to the contents of the parcel received,--an oratorio for -the first morning (such a subject, 'Heaven and Earth'!); a cantata for -a double choir; an organ symphony, with interludes for voices only; a -sonata for the violin; a group of songs and fancies. The last are for -the evenings; but otherwise the evenings are to be filled with Bach, -Beethoven, Mozart, and Handel,--the programmes already made out. How -is it possible, Charles, that such progress can have been condensed -into a few mere months? Think of the excitement, the unmitigated -stress of such an industry! Three completed works in less than a -quarter of a year, not to speak of the lesser wonders!" - -It seemed to affect Davy's brain; as for me, I felt sure the works had -stirred,--as the Spirit moving upon the face of the waters, before the -intermomentary light, long ages, as we reckon in this world's -computation, before they framed themselves into form. Nor was this -conviction lessened when I first became acquainted with the new-born -glories of an imagination on fire of heaven. - -Seraphael came to England, and of course northwards, to superintend -the earliest rehearsals; it was his own wish to do so, and every one -felt it necessary to be introduced by him alone to what came alone of -him. Those were strange times,--I do not seem to have lived them, -though in fact I was bodily present in that hall, consecrated by the -passion of a child. But they were wild hours; all tempest-tossed was -my spirit amidst the rush of a manifold enthusiasm. - -Seraphael was so anxious to be at his home again that the rehearsals -were conducted daily. He was to return again, having departed, for -their ultimate fulfilment. It appeared very remarkable that he should -not have taken the whole affair at once, have brought his family over -then, and there remained; but upon the subject he was unapproachable, -only saying, with relation to his arduous life just then and then to -be, that he could not be too much occupied to please himself. - -He did not stay in our house this time; we could not press him to do -so, for he was evidently in that state to which the claims of -friendship may become a burden instead of a beguiling joy. He was -alone greatly at his hotel, though I can for myself say that in his -intercourse with me, his gentleness towards me was so sweet that I -dare not remind myself of it. Still, in all he said and did there was -something seeming to be that was not; an indescribable want of -interest in the charms of existence which he had ever drawn into his -bosom,--a constant endeavor to rouse from a manifest abstraction. -Notwithstanding, he still wore the air of the most perfect health, nor -did I construe those signs, except into the fact of his being absent -from his new-found, his endeared and delighted home. He left us so -suddenly that I was only just in time to see him off. He would not -permit me to accompany him to London, from whence he should instantly -embark; but it was a letter from Clara that really hastened his -departure,--his babes were ill. I could not gain from him the least -idea of their affection, nor whether there was cause for fear; his -face expressed alarm, but had an unutterable look besides,--a look -which certainly astonished me, for it might have bespoken -indifference, as it might bespeak despair. One smile I caught as he -departed, that was neither indifferent nor desolate; it wrung my heart -with happiness to reflect that smile had been for me. - -The feeling I had for those unknown babies was inexplicable after he -was fairly gone. That I should have loved them, though unseen, was -scarcely strange, for they were the offspring of the two I loved best -on earth; but I longed and languished for one glimpse of their baby -faces just in proportion to the haunting certainty which clutched me -that those baby faces I should never see. Their beauty had been -Seraphael's only inspiration when, in conversation with me, he had -fully seemed himself: the one so light and clear, with eyes as the -blue of midnight,--his brow, her eyes; the other soft and roseate, -with her angel forehead and his own star-like gaze,--her smile upon -them both, and the features both of him. As one who reads of the -slaughtered darlings in the days of Herod, as one who pores on -chronicles of the cradle plague-smitten, I felt for them; they seemed -never to have been born, to me. - -Oh, that they had never been born, indeed! At least, there was one -while I thought so. We had a heart-rending letter from Clara one -fortnight after her lord returned to her: the twins were both dead, -and by that time both buried in the same grave. With her pure -self-forgetfulness where another suffered, she spoke no word of her -own sorrow, but she could not conceal from us how fearfully the blow -had fallen upon him. The little she said made us all draw close -together and tremble with an emotion we could not confess. But the -letter concluded with an assurance of his supreme and undaunted -intention, undisturbed by the shocks and agonies of unexpected woe, to -undertake the conductorship of the festival. The sorrow that now -shadowed expectations which had been too bright, tempered also our -joy, too keen till then. But after a week or two, when we received no -further tidings, we began absolutely to expect him, and with a -stronger anticipation--infatuation--than ever, built upon a future -which no man may dare to call his own, either for good or evil. The -hottest summer I had ever known interfered not with the industry alike -of band and chorus. The intense beauty of the music and its -marvellous embodiments had fascinated the very country far and wide; -it was as if art stood still and waited even for him who had magnified -her above the trumpery standards of her precedented progress. - -We were daily expecting a significant assurance that he was on our -very shores. I was myself beginning to tremble in the air of sorrow -that must necessarily surround them both, himself and his companion, -when, one morning,--I forget the date; may I never remember it!--I was -reflecting upon the contents of a paper which Davy took in every -week,--a chronicle of musical events, which I ransacked -conscientiously, though it was seldom much to the purpose. Strangely -enough, I had been reading of the success of another friend of -mine,--even Laura, who had not denied herself the privilege of -artist-masonry after all, for she was dancing amidst flowers and fairy -elements, and I was determining I would, at the first opportunity, go -to see her. Then I considered I should like her to come to the -festival, and was making up a letter of requests to my ever-generous -friend, Miss Lawrence, that she might bring Laura, as I knew she would -be willing, when a letter came for me, was brought by an unconscious -servant and laid between my hands. It was in Clara's writing, once -again. I was coward enough to spare myself a few moments. There was no -one in the room; I was just on the wing to my band, but I could not -help still sparing myself a little, and a very little, longer. I -believe I knew as well what was in the letter as if I had opened it -before I broke the seal. I believe terror and intense presentiment -lent me that stillness and steadiness of perception which are the very -empyrean of sorrow. Enough! I opened it at last, and found it exactly -as I had expected,--Seraphael himself was ill. The hurry and trouble -of the letter induced me to believe there was more behind her words -than in them, mournful and unsatisfactory as they were. He was, as he -believed himself to be, overwrought; and though he considered himself -in no peril, he must have quiet. This struck me most; it was all over -if he felt he must have quiet. But the stunning point was that he -deputed his friend Lenhart Davy to the conductorship of his own -works,--the concerts all being arranged by himself in preparation, and -nothing but a director being required. Clara concluded by asking me to -come to her if I could. She did not say he wished to see me, but I -knew she wished to see me herself; and even for his sake that call was -enough for me. - -My duties, my intentions, all lay in the dust. I considered but how to -make way thither with the speed that one fain would change to wind, to -lightning, or yoke to them as steeds. I packed up nothing, nor did I -leave a single trace of myself behind, except Clara's letter and a -postscript, in pencil, of my own. I was in my mother's house when the -letter came upon me; and flying past Davy's on my way to the railroad, -I saw Millicent with Carlotta looking out of one of the windows, all -framed in roses. It was a sight I merely recall as we recall touches -of pathos to medicine us for deeper sorrow. Two days and nights I -travelled incessantly, without information or help, solitary as a -pilgrim who is wandering from home to heaven; it could be nothing -else, I knew. The burning, glowing summer, the tossing forests, the -corn-fields yet unravished, the glory on the crested lime-trees, the -vines smothering rock and wall and terrace with fruit of life,--all -these I saw, and many other dreams, as a dream myself I passed. I -only know I seemed taking the whole world. So wide the scattered -sensations spread themselves that I dared not call home to myself; for -they did but minister to the perfect appreciation that what I dreamed -was true, and what I yearned to clasp as truth a dream. - -The city of his home was before me,--but how can I call it a city? It -was a nest itself in a nest of hills. Below the river rushed, its -music ever in a sleep, and its blue waves softened hyaline by -distance. In the last sunset smile I saw the river and the valley, the -vines at hand crawled over it, and there was not a house around that -was not veiled in flowers. When I entered the valley from below, the -purple evening had drowned the sunset as with a sea, there was no mist -nor cloud, the starlight was all pure, it brightened moment by moment. -And having hurried all along till now, at length I rested. For now I -felt that of all I had ever endured, the approaching crisis was the -consummation. Had I dared, I would have returned; for I even desired -not to advance. My own utter impotence, my unavailing presence, -weighed me down, and the might of my passion ensphered me as did that -distant starlight,--I was as nothing to itself. I had shed no tears. -Tears I have ever found the springs of gladness, and grief most dry. -But who could weep in that breathless expectation? who would not, when -he cannot, rejoice to weep? Brighter than I had ever seen them, the -stars shone on me; and brighter and brighter they seemed to burn -through the crystal clarity of my perception: my ear felt open, I -heard sounds born of silence which, indeed, were no sounds, but -_themselves_ silence. I saw the unknown which, indeed, could not be -seen; and thus I waited, suspended in the midst of time, yearning for -some heaven to open and take me in. Whatever air stirred was soft as -the pulse of sleep; whatever sigh it carried was a sigh of flowers, -late summer sweetness, first autumn sadness, poured into faint -embrace. I saw the church-tower in the valley, it reached me as a -dream. All was a dream round about,--the dark shade of the terraced -houses, the shadier trees; and I myself the dreamer, to whom those -stars above, those heights so unimaginable, were the only waking day. -At midnight I had not moved, and at midnight I dreamed another dream, -still standing there. - -The midnight hour had struck, and died along the valley into the -quiet, when a sudden gathering gleam behind a distant rock rose like a -red moonlight and tinged the very sky. But there was no moon, and I -felt afraid and child-like. I was obliged to watch to ascertain. It -grew into a glare, that gleam,--the glare of fire; and slowly, stilly -as even in a dream indeed, wound about the rock and passed down along -the valley a dark procession, bearing torches, with a darker in the -midst of them than they. - -Down the valley to the church they came: I knew they were for resting -there. No bell caught up the silence, I heard no tramp of feet, they -might have been spirits for all the sound they made; and when at last -they paused beneath me in the night, the torches streamed all -steadily, and rained their flaming smiles upon the imagery in the -midst. - -That bier was carried proudly, as of a warrior called from deadly -strife to death's own sleep. But not as warrior's its ornaments, its -crown. The velvet folds passed beneath into the dark grass as they -paused, as storm-clouds rolling softly, as gloom itself at rest. But -above, from the face of the bier, the darkness fled away,--it was -covered with a mask of flowers. Wreath within wreath lay there, hue -within hue, from virgin white and hopeful azure to the youngest blush -of love. And in the very midst, next the pale roses and their tender -green, a garland of the deepest crimson glowed, leafless, brilliant, -vivid; the full petals, the orb-like glory, gave out such splendors to -the flame-light that the fresh first youth's blood of a dauntless -heart was alone the suggestion of its symbol. Keenly in the distance -the clear vision, the blaze of softness, reached me. I stirred not, I -rushed not forwards; I joined in the dread feast afar. I stood as -between the living and the dead,--the dead below, the living with the -stars above,--and the plague of my heart was stayed. - -I waited until the bier, bare of its gentle burden, stood lonely by -the grave. I waited until the wreaths, flung in, covered the treasure -with their kisses that was a jewel for earth to hide. I saw the -torches thrown into the abyss, quenched by the kisses of the flowers, -even as the earthly joy, the beauty, had been quenched in that abyss -of light which to us is only darkness. I watched the black shadows -draw closer round the grave; one suffocating cry arose, as if all -hearts were broken in that spasm, or as if Music herself had given up -the ghost. _But Music never dies._ In reply to that sickening shout, -as if, indeed, a heaven opened to receive me, a burst, a peal, a shock -of transcendent music fell from some distant height. I saw no sign the -while I heard, nor was it a mourning strain. Triumphant, jubilant, -sublime in seraph sweetness, joy immortal, it mingled into the arms of -Night. While yet its echoes rang, another strain made way, came forth -to meet it, and melted into its embrace, as jubilant as blissful, but -farther, fainter, more ineffable. Again it yielded to the echoes; but -above those echoes swelled another, a softer, and yet another and a -softer voice, that was but the mingling of many voices, now far and -far away. Distantly, dyingly, till death drank distance up, the music -wandered. And at length, when the mystic spell was broken, and I could -hear no more, I could only believe it still went on and on, sounding -through all the earth, beyond my ear, and rising up to heaven from -shores of lands untraversed as that country beyond the grave! All -peace came there upon me; as a waveless deep it welled up and upwards -from my spirit, till I dared no longer sorrow: my love was -dispossessed of fear, and the demon Despair, exorcised, fled as one -who wept and fain would hide his weeping. And yet that hope, if hope -it could be, that cooled my heart and cheered my spirit, was not a -hope of earth. My faith had fleeted as an angel into the light, and -that hope alone stayed by me. - -It was not until the next morning, and then not early, that I visited -that house and the spirit now within it whose living voice had called -me thither. No longer timidly, if most tenderly, I advanced along the -valley, past the church which guarded now the spot on all this earth -the most like heaven, and found the mansion, now untenanted, that -Heaven itself had robbed. Quiet stillness--not as of death, but most -like new-born wonder--possessed that house. The overhanging balconies, -the sunburst on the garden, the fresh carnations, the carved gateway, -the shaded window, and over all the cloudless sky, and around, all -that breathed and lived,--it was a lay beyond all poetry, and such a -melancholy may never music utter. Thoné took me in, and I believe she -had waited for me at the door. She spoke not, and I spoke not; she led -me only forwards with the air of one who feels all words are lost -between those who understand but cannot benefit each other. She led -me to a room in which she left me; but I was not to be alone. I saw -Clara instantly,--she came to meet me from the window, unchanged as -the summer-land without by the tension or the touch of trouble. I -could not possibly believe, as I saw her, and seeing her felt my -courage flow back, my life resume its current, that she had ever -really suffered. Her face so calm was not pale; her eye so clear was -tearless. Nor was there that writhing smile about her lovely lips that -is more agonizing than any tears. It was entirely in vain I tried to -speak,--had she required comfort, my words would have thronged at my -will; but if any there required comfort, it could not be herself. -Seeing my fearful agitation, which would work through all my silence, -her sweet voice startled me; I listened as to an angel, or as to an -angel I should never have listened. - -"If I had known how it would be, I would never have been so rash as to -send for you. But he was so strange--for he did not suffer--that I -could not think he was going to die. I do not call it dying, nor would -you if you had seen it. I wish I could make that darling feel such -death was better than to live." - -I put a constraint upon myself which no other presence could have -brought me to exhibit. - -"What darling, then?" said I; for I could only think of one who was -darling as well as king. - -"Poor Starwood! But you will be able to comfort him,--you are the only -person who could." - -"Perhaps it would not be kind to comfort him; perhaps he would rather -suffer. But I will do my best to please you. Where is he now?" - -"I will bring him;" and she left the room. - -In another moment, all through the sunny light that despite the shaded -windows streamed through the very shade, she entered again with -Starwood. He flew at me and sank upon the ground. I have seen -women--many--weep, and some few men; but I have never seen, and may I -never see! such weeping as he wept. Tears--as if tropic rains should -drench our Northern gardens--seemed dissolving with his very life his -gentle temperament. I could not rouse nor raise him. His sodden hair, -his hands as damp as death, his dreadful sobs, his moans of misery, -his very crushed and helpless attitude, appealed to me not in vain; -for I felt at once it was the only thing to do for him that he should -be suffered to weep till he was satisfied, or till he could weep no -more. And yet his tears provoked not mine, but rather drove them -inwards and froze them to my heart. Nor did Clara weep; but I could -not absolutely say whether she had already wept or not,--for where -other eyes grow dim, hers grew only brighter; and weeping--had she -wept--had only cleared her heaven. We sat for hours in that room -together,--that fair but dreadful room, its brilliant furniture -unworn, its frescos delicate as any dream, its busts, its pictures, -crowding calm lights and glorious colors, all fresh as the face of -Nature, with home upon its every look; save only where the organ -towered, and muffling in dark velvet its keys and pipes, reminded us -that music had left home for heaven, and we might no more find it -there! - -And again it was longed-for evening,--the twilight tarried not. It -crept, it came, it fell upon the death-struck, woful valley. O blessed -hour,--the repose alike of passion and of grief! O blessed heaven! to -have softened the mystic change from day to darkness so that we can -bear them both,--never so blessed as when the broken-hearted seek thy -twilights and find refreshment in thy shades! At that hour we two -alone stood together by the glorious grave. For the first time, as the -sun descended, Starwood had left off weeping. I had myself put him in -his bed, and rested beside him till he was asleep; then I had returned -to Clara. She was wrapped in black, waiting for me. We went together -without speaking, without signifying our intentions to each other; but -we both took the same way, and stood, where I have said, together; and -when we had kissed the ground she spoke. She had not spoken all the -day,--most grave and serious had been her air; she yet looked more as -a child that had lost its father than a widowed wife,--as if she had -never been married, she struck me: an almost virgin air possessed her, -an unserene reserve, for now her accents faltered. - -"I could not say to you till we were alone," she said,--"and we could -not be alone to-day,--how much I thank you for coming; so many persons -are to be here in a day or two, and I wish to consult with you." - -"I will see them all for you, I will arrange everything; but you are -not going away?" - -"Going away? And you to say so, too! I will never leave this place -until I die!" - -"You love him, then, thank God!" - -"Love him! Shall I tell you how? You know best what it was to love -him, for you loved him best,--better than I did; and yet I loved him -with all love. Do I look older, and more like this world, or less?" - -She smiled a sweet significance,--a smile she had learned from him. - -"I have been thinking how young you look,--too young, almost. You are -so fresh, so child-like, and--may I say it?--so fair." - -"You may say anything. I think I have grown fairer myself. Very -strange to confess, is it? But you are my friend,--to you I should -confess anything. I have been with a spirit-angel,--no wonder I am -fresh. I have been in heaven,--no wonder I am fair. I felt myself grow -better hour by hour. After I left you with him, when his arms were -round me, when he kissed me, when his tenderness oppressed me,--I felt -raised to God. No heart ever was so pure, so overflowing with the -light of heaven. I can only believe I have been in heaven, and have -fallen here,--not that he has left me, and I must follow him to find -him. I will not follow yet, my friend! I have much to do that he has -left me." - -"Thank God, you will not leave us,--but more, because you love him, -and made him happy!" - -"You do not, perhaps, know that he was never anything but happy. When -I think of discontent and envy and hatred and anger and care, and see -them painted upon other faces, I feel that he must have tasted heaven -to have made himself so happy here. I can fancy a single taste of -heaven, sir, lasting a whole life long." - -She was his taste of heaven, as a foretaste even to me! But had she, -indeed, never learned the secret of his memory, or had she turned, -indeed, its darkness into light? - -"I wish to hear about the last." - -"You know nearly as much as I do, or as I can tell you. You remember -the music you heard last night? It was the last he wrote, and I found -it and saved it, and had done with it what you heard." - -But I cannot descant on death-beds; it is the only theme which I dare -believe, if I were to touch, would scare me at my dying hour. I will -not tamper with those scenes, but console myself by reminding that if -the time had been, and that, too, lately, when upon that brain fell -the light in fever and the sun in fire, the time was over; and -sightless, painless, deaf to the farewells of dying music, he, indeed, -could not be said to _suffer_ death. - -Nor did he _know_ to suffer it, as he had said. The crown that, -piercing with its _fiery thorns_ unfelt, had pressed into his brow the -death-sting, should also crown with its _star-flowers_ the waking unto -life. - - * * * * * - -"You remember what you said, Mr. Auchester, that he needed a -'companion for his earthly hours:' I tried to be his companion,--he -allowed me to be so; and one of the last times he spoke he said: -'Thank Carl for giving you to me.'" - - -That echo reaches me from the summer-night of sadness and still -communion, of _passion's slumber by the dead_. It is now some years -ago; but never was any love so fresh to the spirit it enchanted, as is -the enchantment of this sorrow, still mine own. So be it ever mine, -till all shall be forever! - - -I am in England, and again at home. Great changes have swept the -earth; I know of none within myself. Through all convulsions the music -whispers to me _that music is_. I ought to believe in its existence, -for it is my own life and the life of the living round me. Davy is -still at work, but not alone in hope,--sometimes in the midst of -triumph. They tell me I shall never grow rich, but with my violin I -shall never be poor. I have more than enough for everything, as far -as I myself am concerned; and as for those I love, there is not one -who prospers not, even by means of music. - -Starwood has been three years in London. His name, enfolded in another -name, brought the whole force of music to his feet. It is not easy to -procure lessons of the young professor, who can only afford twenty -minutes to the most exacting pupil. It is still less easy to hear him -play in public, for he has a will of his own, and will only play what -he likes, and only what he likes to the people he likes; for he is a -bit of a cynic, and does not believe, half so much as I do, that music -is making way. He married his first feminine pupil,--a girl of almost -fabulous beauty. I believe he gave her half-a-dozen lessons before the -crisis,--not any afterwards; and I know that he was seventeen and she -fifteen years of age at the time they married.[10] His whole nature is -spent upon her; but she is kind enough to like me, and thus I -sometimes receive an invitation, which I should accept did they reside -in the moon. - -But I have other London friends. After two seasons, more satisfactory -than brilliant, Laura retired from the stage. During the time she -danced, her name was scarcely whispered,--I believe she was even -feared in her spiritual exaltation of her art; but no sooner had she -left the lights than all critics and contemporaries discovered her -excellences. She was wooed with the white-flower garlands of the -purest honor, with the gold so few despised, to return and resume her -career, now certain fame; but she was never won, and I have since -made clear to myself that she only danced in public until she had -raised a certain capital, for you will only find her now in her -graceful drawing-room where London is most secluded, surrounded by the -most graceful and loveliest of the children of the peerage. No one but -Mademoiselle Lauretta--her stage and professional name--prepares the -little rarities for transplantation into the court-garden, or -rehearses the quadrille for the Prince of Wales's birthnight-ball. I -believe Miss Lemark, as she is known still to me, or even Laura, might -have had many homes if she had chosen,--homes where she could not but -have felt at home. Clara was even importunate that she should live -with her in Germany; Miss Lawrence was excessively indignant at being -refused herself; and there have been worthy gentlemen, shades not to -be invoked or recognized, who would have been very thankful to be -allowed to dream of that pale brow veiled, those clear eyes downcast, -those tapering fingers twined in theirs. But Laura, like myself, will -_never_ marry. - -For Miss Lawrence, too, that glorious friend of mine, I must have a -little corner. It was Miss Lawrence who carried to Laura the news of -Seraphael's death,--herself heart-broken, who bound up that bleeding -heart. It is Miss Lawrence whose secretive and peculiar generosity so -permeates the heart of music in London that no true musician is -actually ever poor. It is Miss Lawrence who, disdaining -subscription-lists, steps unseen through every embarrassment where -those languish who are too proud or too humble to complain, and leaves -that behind her which re-assures and re-establishes by the magic of -charity strewn from her artist-hand. It is Miss Lawrence who discerns -the temporality of art to be that which is as inevitable as its -spiritual necessity; who yet ministers to its uttermost spiritual -appreciation by her patronage of the highest only. It is Miss Lawrence -you see wherever music is to be heard, with her noble brow and -sublimely beneficent eyes, her careless costume, and music-beaming -lips; but you cannot know, as I do, what it is to have her for a -friend. - -Miss Lawrence certainly lost caste by receiving and entertaining, as -she did, Mademoiselle Lauretta; for both when Laura was dancing before -the public and had done with so dancing, Miss Lawrence would insist -upon her appearing at every party or assembly she gave,--whether with -her father's sanction or without, nobody knew. To be introduced to a -ballet-girl, or even a dancing-lady, at the same table or upon the -same carpet with barristers and baronets, with golden-hearted bankers -and "earnest" men of letters!--she certainly lost caste by her -resolute unconventionalism, did my friend Miss Lawrence. But then, as -she said to me, "What in life does it matter about losing caste with -people who have no caste to lose?" She writes to me continually, and -her house is my home in London. I have never been able to make her -confess that she sent me my violin; but I know she did, for her -interest in me can only be explained on that ground, and there is that -look upon her face, whenever I play, which assures me of something -associated in her mind and memory with my playing that is not itself -music. - -Miss Lawrence also corresponds with Clara, and Clara sees us too; but -no one, seeing her, would believe her to be childless and alone. She -is more beautiful than ever, and not less calm,--more loving and more -beloved. - -We had Florimond Anastase a concert-player at our very last festival. -He was exactly like the young Anastase who taught me, and I should not -have been able to believe him older but for his companion, a young -lady, who sat below him in the audience, and at whom I could only -gaze. It was Josephine Cerinthia, no longer a child, but still a -prodigy, for she has the finest voice, it is said, in Europe. No one -will hear it, however, for Anastase, who adopted her eight years ago, -makes her life the life of a princess, or as very few princesses' can -be; he works for her, he saves for her, and has already made her rich. -They say he will marry her by and by; it may be so, but I do not -myself believe it. - -Near the house in which Seraphael died, and rising as from the ashes -of his tomb, is another house which holds his name, and will ever hold -it to be immortal. Sons and daughters of his own are there,--of his -land, his race, his genius,--those whom music has "called" and -"chosen" from the children of humanity. The grandeur of the -institution, its stupendous scale, its intention, its consummation, -afford, to the imagination that enshrines him, the only monument that -would not insult his name. Nor is that temple without its priestess, -that altar without its angel. She who devoted the wealth of his wisdom -to that work gave up the treasure of her life besides, and has -consecrated herself to its superintendence. At the monumental school -she would be adored, but that she is too much loved as children -love,--too much at home there to be feared. I hold her as my passion -forever; she makes my old years young in memory, and to every new -morning of my life her name is Music. With another name--not dearer, -but as dear--she is indissolubly connected; and if I preserve my -heart's first purity, it is to them I owe it. - -I write no more. Had I desired to treat of music specifically, I -should not have written at all; for that theme demands a tongue beyond -the tongues of men and angels,--a voice that is no more heard. But if -one faithful spirit find an echo in my expression, to his beating -heart for music, his inward song of praise, it is not in vain that I -write, that what I have written is written. - - CHARLES AUCHESTER. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[10] Sterndale Bennett married Mary Anne, daughter of Captain James -Wood, R. N. - - -THE END. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Charles Auchester, Volume 2 (of 2), by -Elizabeth Sheppard - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES AUCHESTER, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) *** - -***** This file should be named 40259-8.txt or 40259-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/5/40259/ - -Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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