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.
