NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
Mrs. Flaxman's fears were realized. She was detained from her pickles and
preserves for over a fortnight; but the days spent then in the city were
an entirely new revelation of life to me. Mr. Winthrop had a circle of
literary friends, who seemed determined to make his stay so pleasant
that he would not be in a hurry to return to the solitude of Oaklands.
When I saw his keen enjoyment of their society, and the many varied
privileges he had in that brief period--musical, artistic, and literary,
I was filled with surprise that he should make his home at Oaklands at
all, and expressed my wonder to Mrs. Flaxman.
"Oh, he often goes away--sometimes to Europe, and sometimes to the great
American centres of thought and life; then he comes home apparently glad
of its quiet and freedom from interruption. I think he uses up all the
raw experiences and ideas he gets when away."
I thought her reply over, and wondered if it was the usual habit of
literary people to go out on those foraging expeditions and bring back
material to be used up in weeks of solitude. We were either out among
friends, at concerts, lectures, evening gatherings, or else receiving Mr.
Winthrop's particular friends at our hotel, every evening. I enjoyed
those evenings at home, I think, the very best of all. We sat late,
supper being served about midnight--a plain, sensible repast that, with
a man of Mr. Winthrop's means, might certainly betoken high thinking.
However, the intellectual repast served to us reminded me of the feasts
of the gods, or even better, in old Homeric times. There were condensed
thoughts that often kept me puzzling over their meanings long after their
words had died on the air. Mrs. Flaxman sat, a mostly silent listener,
but in no wise showing weariness at the lateness of the hour, or mental
strain imposed in following such abstract lines of thought. I too
listened silently, save in reply to some direct remark, but with pained,
growing thoughts, that often left me utterly weary when the little
company dispersed. I would often stop listening and fall into vague,
hopeless speculations as to the number of centuries that must elapse
before I could overtake them. Saddest fancy of all was that my powers
might be too limited even to do this. Our daylight hours were, in great
measure, passed in making and receiving calls from Mrs. Flaxman's
friends, who seemed very quick to find out she was there, and in visiting
the huge dressmaking and dry goods establishments which she patronized. I
found it quite difficult, at times, to reconcile the fact that those we
met by day were, in the main, created in the same mental likeness as
those I listened to with such admiration in the evening. I used to close
my eyes at times and fancy the old heathen, mythology to be true, and
that the gods were actually revisiting the earth, and bringing with them
the high conceptions from Olympus, I was able more clearly than ever to
recognize how high were Mr. Winthrop's ideals, so far as this world goes,
of human excellence and, with deepest humiliation, remembered how far I
must have come short of his lowest standards. I went to Mrs. Flaxman with
this new and painful discovery, and as usual, she brought her
consolation.
"Very few can hope to attain such excellence of culture and intellect as
these men possess. You and I ought to be grateful to our Creator if he
has given us brain power sufficient to appreciate and comprehend their
words. I know it has given Mr. Winthrop deep satisfaction to see you so
interested in their conversation."
"How do you know that?" I asked, pleased at her words.
"I look at him sometimes while you get so absorbed listening that you
seem to forget everything; and I see the gratified expression of his
face while he watches you. I know it would be a disappointment to him if
you should develop into a fashionable, feather-headed woman."
"Or a widow-helping philanthropist," I said, laughing.
"Of the two, he would prefer the latter."
"But neither would be his ideal."
"I am not altogether certain of that; but I do know he holds in strong
dislike a woman who simply exists to follow the fashions, no matter how
attractive she may be."
"I am ashamed to say I like getting new things, especially when they are
becoming," I said, a little shamefacedly.
"I am sure you would get tired of a perpetual round of new hats and
frocks, and trying them on, I am not apt to be mistaken in a person."
"But it is vastly easier to think of harmonious colors and combinations
of dry goods, than it is to puzzle over those knotty subjects we listen
to here in the evening, or to translate Chopin or Wagner, or the other
great masters."
"But once mastering any of these, the pleasure arising therefrom gives
satisfaction to a noble cast of mind that a whole gallery of Worth's
choicest costumes could not produce."
"Solomon said: Much study is a weariness of the flesh."
"Solomon was an intellectual dyspeptic. But granting that it is a
weariness, it is something that pays well for the weariness."
"If all the world were to come to Mr. Winthrop's way of thinking, it
would be a sad thing for the dressmakers."
"Not necessarily. They would still be needed, but they would do the
thinking about what would best suit the style of their respective
customers; and the latter would be left free of that special task,
to devote their minds to their own interior furnishing."
"Ah, you describe a second Utopia, or the golden age. A few in each
generation might reach that clear, chill region of sublime thought; but
the rank and file of womankind, and perhaps of mankind, would despise
them as cranks."
"But if they had something vastly better than the respect of the careless
and uncultured, need they mind what these would say?"
"Possibly not; but in most women's hearts there is an innate love of
adornment, and the art they will not relegate very willingly to others."
"I did not think you cared so much for dress."
"You and Mr. Winthrop are putting the strongest temptations in my way,
and then expect that I shall calmly turn my dazzled eyes inwards upon
the unfurnished, empty spaces of my own mind."
"You seemed to care almost too little for elegance of attire, I thought."
"What the eyes do not see the heart never longs for. But glossy velvets,
shimmering silks, with colors perfected from the tints of the rainbow;
laces that are a marvel of fineness and beauty; and gems that might
dazzle older heads than mine, thrown recklessly in my way, could any
young creature fond of pretty things turn away from them, with the
indifference of a wrinkled philosopher? I should have staid at Oaklands,
and saved my money for the Mill Road folk."
"You must have the temptation, if you are to have the credit of
overcoming it."
"Is there not a wonderful petition left for us by One who knows all
things? 'Lead us not into temptation.'"
"I do not think this is a parallel case. God's way with His people, ever
since Eve was denied the fruit in Eden, has been to prove them by
temptation. His promise that there shall, with the temptation, be a way
of escape, is what we need to claim."
"My way of escape will be to go back to Oaklands, where an occasional tea
party will be the most dangerous allurement to vanity in my way."
"But you will not always remain there. Mr. Winthrop will not be so remiss
in his duty as your guardian as to bury you there. Marriage, and a
judicious settlement in life, are among the probabilities of your near
future."
My cheeks crimsoned; for marriage was one of the tabooed subjects of
conversation at Madame Buhlman's. Only in the solitude of our own rooms
did we dare to converse on such a topic. But no doubt we wove our
romances as industriously, and dreamed our dreams of the beautiful,
impossible future stretching beyond our dim horizons, as eagerly as if
we had been commanded to spend a certain portion of each day in its
contemplation.
Mrs. Flaxman noticed my embarrassment, and, after a few moments
said:--"Perhaps the fairy prince has already claimed his own."
I laughed lightly, but still felt ill at ease as I said: "I have never
met him, and begin to doubt if he has an existence."
"He is sure to come, soon or late; probably too soon to please me.
I shall miss you sadly when you go away from us."
I knelt beside her chair, a lump gathering in my throat, and my slow
coming tears ready to drop.
"I do not know why you should miss me, but it makes me so glad to hear
you say so. I have no one to really love me in the wide, wide world, that
is, whose love I can claim as a right, and sometimes the thought makes me
desolate."
She sat for awhile silently stroking my hair.
"I do not think yours will be a desolate, or lonely life, Medoline. It
is only the selfish who are punished in that way. The blessing of those
about the perish will overtake you, making the shadowy places in your
life bright."
"But there are no perishing ones conveniently near for me to save. I am
of little more use in the world than a humming bird."
"Already some of the Mill Road folk have been comforted by you. You
remember it is recorded of the Mary of Bethany; 'She hath done what she
could.' For that act of gratitude to the Master, her memory will be
cherished long after the sun is cold. We do not know if somewhere all our
minutest acts of unselfishness are not recorded, to be met with one day
with glad surprise on our part."
"I would rather be so remembered," I said with eager longing, "than to be
a Cleopatra or Helen of Troy."
"In what way is that?" Mr. Winthrop asked, as he stood looking down at me
from behind Mrs. Flaxman's chair. I sprang to my feet in consternation.
"We did not hear you enter," I faltered, very much ashamed to be found in
such a childish attitude.
"I know that, since I would not have been just now admitted to your
confidence."
I wheeled him up an arm chair, and stirred the fire very industriously,
hoping thereby to divert his attention. He sat down quietly. His massive
head laid back against the rich, dark leather seemed to bring the
features out in stronger relief; the fire light falling uncertainly on
his face, but enabling me to note distinctly its expectant look. I went
to the window and stood for sometime watching the passers by in the
street, thinking thus to pass away the time until Mr. Winthrop should
forget to further question me; but he suddenly startled me by coming
towards the window where I stood, and saying:
"You have not answered my question."
"The remark was only intended for Mrs. Flaxman's ears, and was of no
importance, any way."
"Mrs. Flaxman then will enlighten me as to the bent of your ambition," he
said, quite too authoritatively for my liking, and turned towards her.
"Our conversation drifted to personal endeavor. We were talking of many
things, when Medoline, just as you came in, expressed the wish to be
helpful to others rather than to shine in cold and stately splendor."
"Ah, yes. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were excellent illustrations of the
splendor. I am glad she is able to avail herself of her classical studies
in conversation."
I looked mutely at Mrs. Flaxman, but she was gazing intently into the
burning coals, with a slight flush on her face, caused, I knew, by Mr.
Winthrop's words. A few moments after I glanced at my guardian. His eyes
were closed, the lines of his face looked hard and stern. I wondered if
it never softened even in sleep, or did it always wear that look that
some way brought to my mind the old Vikings of the frozen north.
Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the
concert. Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and
would not accompany us.
"I thought you particularly admired Beethoven's Ninth Symphony," I
exclaimed, with surprise.
"I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer
gives them great praise. I would as soon hear that Larkum baby crowing as
to hear such a masterpiece mangled."
"Some passages will be well rendered, surely."
"What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord? I shall expect,
however, a full account of the performance from you."
"I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in
Belgium. I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after."
"And why not?"
"It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far
beyond my powers to master."
His face softened, while he arose from his chair and came a few steps
nearer to me.
"Only one or two human beings, so far as we know, have had musical
powers equal to Beethoven. Most men are satisfied if they can perform
harmoniously his creations."
"I could never do that. I might by years of hard study get so far as to
strike the correct notes, but the soul and expression would elude me,
simply because I have not brain power sufficient to comprehend them. A
thrush would be foolish to emulate the nightingale."
"Yes but some one might be gladdened by its own simple note," he said,
gently.
I was silent, while his words sank comfortably in my heart.
Looking up, at last, I caught his eye.
"I will try to be satisfied with my thrush's note, and make the best of
it."
"That is right, but make sure that you are not any better song bird than
the thrush, before you rest satisfied with its simple accomplishment."
Very earnestly and sincerely I promised him to do my best, and then
followed Mrs. Flaxman from the room. Our escort proved to be Mr. Bovyer,
a grave man, not so young as Mr. Winthrop, and who had a genuine passion
for classic music. I fancied from his name and partiality for German
composers that he must be either directly or remotely of Teutonic origin.
Beethoven was his great favorite. He averred that the latter had
penetrated further into the mysteries of music than any other human
being. He seemed transformed while we sat listening to the great waves
of harmony bewildering our senses; for, notwithstanding Mr. Winthrop's
prophecy, the concert was a success. He had a stolid face. One might
take him almost for a retired, well-to-do butcher; but when the air was
pulsating with delicious sounds, his face lighted up and grew positively
handsome.
"I wonder how you will endure the music of the immortals, that God
listens to, if you get with the saved by and bye?" I said, impulsively.
He shook his head doubtfully, but gave me at the same time a look of
surprise.
"I do not ask for anything better than Beethoven," he replied quietly.
Some way I felt saddened. The Creator was so much beyond the highest
object of his creative skill, even though that is or might be one so
gloriously endowed as Beethoven; it seemed strange that a thinking,
intellectual being would grasp the less when he might lay hold on the
greater. I glanced around on the gay, richly-dressed throng--pretty
women in garments as harmonious in form and color almost as the music
that was thrilling at least some of us; some of them fair enough, I
fancied, to be walking in a better world than ours; then, by some strange
freak of the imagination, I fell to thinking of the poverty and sorrow,
and breaking hearts all about us, until the music seemed to change to a
minor chord; and away back of all other sounds I seemed to hear the sob
and moan of the dying and broken-hearted. Perhaps some new chord had been
touched in my own heart that had never before responded to human things;
for in spite of myself I sat and wept with a full, aching heart. I tried
to shield my face with my fan and at last regained my composure, and
tried, in sly fashion, to dry my eyes with the bit of lace I called my
handkerchief, and which I found a very poor substitute for the
substantial lawn hitherto used. At last I regained my composure
sufficiently to look up, when I found Mr. Bovyer regarding me keenly. He
glanced away, but after that his manner grew sympathetic, and on our way
home he said,
"I am glad to know you can understand great musical conceptions."
"I found it very, very sad. I scarce ever realized how much pain there
might be in this world, as for a little while I did to-night."
"The tears were sorrowful then, and not glad?" he said, gently.
"My tears are always that. I cannot conceive a joy so great as to make me
weep."
"Your heart is not fully wakened yet, some day you will understand; but
be thankful you can understand a part. Not many at your age feel the
master's touch so keenly." When we said good-night, he asked permission
to call next day. I waited for Mrs. Flaxman to reply, and turned to her,
seeing she hesitated. She smiled and I could see answered for me.
"We shall be happy to see you. Mr. Winthrop receives his friends, I
believe, to-morrow evening." As we went to our rooms she said:--"Won't
it be wonderful if you have captivated Mr. Bovyer's heart?--I am sure Mr.
Winthrop considered him a safe escort, so far as love entanglements
were concerned."
"That old man thinking of love! He looks as if he thought much more of
his dinner than anything else."
"Probably he does bestow some attention on it; but he is not old, at
least not more than six and thirty. Beside he is a very clever man--a
musical critic and good writer; in fact, one of Mr. Winthrop's most
intimate friends."
"That, I presume, speaks volumes in his favor," I said, perhaps with a
touch of sarcasm in my voice.
"Yes; Mr. Winthrop is an unerring judge of character; that is, of late
years."
"Well, I would nearly as soon think of marrying Daniel Blake as this Mr.
Bovyer. I have never been in love, but I have an idea what it is," I
said, following Mrs. Flaxman to her room.
"But Mr. Bovyer might teach you. Did you ever read Shakespeare's
Midsummer Night's Dream?"
"Oh, yes; and of Titania and Bottom of course, but that was only a
dream--Mr. Bovyer is a very solid reality. But I must not stay here
gossiping. Mr. Winthrop will be waiting for my description of the music."
I slipped into my own room to lay aside my wraps, still smiling over Mrs.
Flaxman's childish ideas respecting Mr. Bovyer in the _rôle_ of a lover,
and also a little troubled about the wording of the report I was expected
to give. His smile would be more sarcastic than ever, if I confessed my
tears; and, alas, I had but little other impression to convey of the
majestic harmonies than one of profound sadness. I glanced into my
mirror; the picture reflected back startled me. In the handsome gown,
with the same gems that had once enhanced my mother's charms, the
transformation wrought was considerable; but my eyes were shining with a
deep, unusual brilliancy, and a new expression caused by the influences
of the evening had changed my face almost beyond my own recognition. I
went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book.
I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my
presence. I went to the fireside. On the mantle I noticed, for the first
time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so
mournfully in my ears. I took it in my hand and went nearer the light,
soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my
guardian over his book. When I looked at him his book was closed, and his
eyes regarding me attentively.
"Do you recognize the face?"
"Oh, yes. I wonder he looks like other men."
"Why should he look differently?"
"Because he was different. I wonder what his thoughts were when he was
writing that symphony?" I held the bust off reflectively.
"Did you enjoy your evening's entertainment?"
"Yes and no,--I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop. Please don't ask
me to describe it."
"I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer--he
could tell me better than you. He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a
fear he sees too far beneath our mask."
"I don't want to see him any more then," I said impetuously.
"Why not?"
"I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than
you do, Mr. Winthrop."
"How do you know that I object?"
"Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?"
"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way--meant humanity at large,
rather than my own individual self."
"Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul
just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?" I said, taking a step nearer, and
looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally
penetrating.
"No, Medoline. You, least of any one I know," he said, quietly. I looked
at him with surprise--perhaps a trifle grieved.
"Does that offend you?" he asked after a pause.
"It wounds me; for I am your friend."
"I am glad of that, little one."
"Glad that you have given me pain?" I asked, with an odd feeling as if I
wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.
He left his chair and came to my side.
"Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline? I meant that it gave me pleasure
that you were my friend. I did not think that you cared for me."
"I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard
on me. I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one
else, scarcely, to love." I was beginning to think I must either escape
hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes,
which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my
tears.
"I did not think I was hard on you," he said, gently. "I have been afraid
lest I was humoring your whims too much; but unselfishness, and thought
for the poor, have been such rare traits in the characteristics of my
friends, I have not had a heart hard enough to interfere with your
instincts."
Here was an entirely new revelation to me; I bethought me of Mrs.
Flaxman's remark a short time before, and repeated it to him.
"I do not think I shall ever have paternal feelings towards you,
Medoline, I am not old enough for that. Tell Mrs. Flaxman, if she speaks
that way again, I am not anxious for her to fasten in your heart filial
affection for me."
"But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?"
I pleaded.
"Quite as much," he said, with emphasis. I forgot my tears; for some way
my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary
incumbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing
harmonies of Beethoven's majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away
in their still depths again.