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.