In my box-bed at that flower-baptized inn, I certainly did not sleep
so well as in my own nest at school. Here it was in a box, as ever in
that country of creation; and in the middle of the night I sat up to
wonder whether my sister and new-found brother thought the _locale_ as
stifling as I did. I was up before the sun, and dressed together with
his arrangement of his beams. We had--in spite of the difficulty to
get served in rational fashion--a right merry breakfast, thanks to the
company and the tea. I had not tasted such, as it appeared to me,
since my infancy.
How Davy did rail against the toilet short-comings,--the meagre,
shallow depths of his basin! And he was not happy until I took him to
my portion (as we called our sleeping-places at Cecilia), and let him
do as he pleased with my own water-magazine. This was an artificial
lake of red ware, which was properly a baking-dish, and which I had
purchased under that name for my private need. If it had not been for
the little river which flowed not half a mile from our school, and
which our Cecilians haunted as a bath through summer, I could not
answer, in my memory's conscience, for their morality if, as I of
course believe, cleanliness be next to godliness.
After breakfast, and after I had taken Davy back, I returned myself
alone to seek Maria and escort her. Davy and Millicent seemed so
utterly indisposed to stir out until it was necessary, and so unfit
for any society but each other's, that I did not hesitate to abscond.
I left them together,--Davy lazier than I had ever seen him, and _she_
more like brilliant evening than unexcited morning. What am I writing?
Is morning ever unexcited to the enthusiast? I think his only repose
is in the magical supervention of the mystery night brings to his
heart.
I was sorry to find that neither Maria, Josephine, nor Joseph was at
home. The way was clear upstairs, but all the doors were locked, as
usual, when they were out; and I went on to Cecilia in a pet. It was
nine when I arrived,--quite restored. Our concert was to be at ten.
What different hours are kept in Germany; what different hearts cull
the honey of the hours! Our dining-hall was full; there was a great
din. Our garden-house was swept and garnished as I remembered it the
day I came with one, but not quite so enticing in its provisions,--that
is to say, there were no strawberries, which had been so interesting
to me on the first occasion. I retreated to the library. No one was
there. I might not go among the girls, whose establishment was apart,
but I knew I should meet them before we had to take our places; and
off I scampered to Franz's observatory. Will it be believed?--he was
still at work, those brass lips embracing his, already dressed, his
white gloves lying on his monster's cradle.
"My dear Delemann," I exclaimed, "for pity's sake, put that down now!"
"My dear Carl, how shall I feel when that moment comes?" pointing to
the up-beat of bar 109, where he first came in upon the field of the
score.
"I don't think you will feel different if you practise half an hour
more, any how."
"Yes, I shall; I want rubbing up. Besides, I have been here since
six."
"Oh, Delemann, you are a good boy! But I don't feel nervous at all."
"You, Carl! No, I should think not. You will have no more
responsibility than the hand of a watch, with that Anastase for the
spring,--works, too, that never want winding up, and that were bought
ready made by our patroness."
"Dear Franz, do come; I am dying to see the hall."
"I don't think it is done. Fräulein Cerinthia went out to get some
white roses for a purpose she held secret. The boughs are all up,
though."
"My dear Franz, you are very matter of fact."
"No, I am not, Carl; the tears ran down my face at rehearsal."
"That was because I made a mouth at you, which you wanted to laugh at,
and dared not."
"Well," said Franz, mock mournfully, "I can do nothing with you here,
so come."
He rolled up his monster and took up his gloves. I had a pair of
Millicent's in my pocket.
"We must not forget to call at the garden-house for a rose to put
here," said Franz, running his slight forefinger into his button-hole.
We accordingly went in there. A good many had preceded us, and rifled
the baskets of roses, pinks, and jasmine, that stood about. While we
were turning over those still left, up came somebody, and whispered
that Anastase was bringing in the Cerinthias. I eagerly gazed,
endeavoring, with my might, to look innocent of so gazing. But I only
beheld, between the pillars, the clear brow and waving robes of my
younger master as he bent so lowly before a maiden raimented in white,
and only as he left her; for he entered not within the alcove. As he
retreated, Maria advanced. She was dressed in white, as I have said;
but so dazzling was her beauty that all eyes were bent upon her. All
the chorus-singers were in white; but who looked the least like her?
With the deep azure of our order folded around her breast, and on that
breast a single full white rose, with that dark hair bound from the
arch of her delicate forehead, she approached and presented us each
also with a single rose, exquisite as her own, from the very little
basket I had carried to her that Sunday, now quite filled with the few
flowers it contained. "They are so fresh," said she, "that they will
not die the whole morning!" And I thought, as I saw her, that nothing
in the whole realm of flowers was so beautiful, or just then so fresh,
as herself!
A very little while now, and our conductor, Zittermayer, the superior
in age of Anastase, but his admirer and sworn ally, came in and
ordered the chorus forwards. They having dispersed, he returned for
ourselves,--the gentry of the band. As soon as I aspired through the
narrow orchestra door, I beheld the same sight in front as from the
other end at the day of my initiation into those sceneries, or very
much the same,--the morning sun, which gleamed amidst the leafy
arches, and in the foreground on many a rosy garland. For over the
seats reserved for the Chevalier and his party, the loveliest flowers,
relieved with myrtle only, hung in rich festoons; and as a keystone to
the curtained entrance below the orchestra, the Cecilia
picture--framed in virgin roses by Maria's hand--showed only less
fair than she. At once did this flower-work form a blooming barrier
between him and the general audience, and illustrate his exclusiveness
by a fair, if fading, symbol.
The hall had begun to fill; and I was getting rather nervous about my
English brother and sister, who could not sit together, however near,
when they entered, and found just the seats I could have chosen for
them. Millicent, at the side of the chamber, was just clear of the
flowery division; for I gesticulated violently at her to take such
place.
I felt so excited then, seeing them down there,--of all persons those
I should have most desired in those very spots,--that I think I should
have burst into tears but for a sudden and fresh diversion. While I
had been watching my sister and brother, a murmur had begun to roll
amidst the gathered throng, and just as the conductor came to the
orchestra steps, at the bottom he arrested himself. The first stroke
of ten had sounded from our little church, and simultaneously with
that stroke the steward, bearing on his wand the blue rosette and
bunch of oak-leaves, threw open the curtain of the archway under us
and ushered into the appropriated space the party for whose arrival we
auspiciously waited. I said Zittermayer arrested himself,--he waited
respectfully until they were seated, and then bowed, but did not
advance to salute them further. They also bowed, and he mounted the
steps.
I was enchanted at the decorum which prevailed at that moment; for, as
it happened, it was a more satisfactory idea of homage than the most
unmitigated applause on the occasion. The perfect stillness also
reigned through Cherubini's overture, not one note of which I heard,
though I played as well as any somnambule, for I need scarcely say I
was looking at that party; and being blessed with a long sight, I saw
as well as it was possible to see all that I required to behold.
First in the line sat a lady, at once so stately and so young looking,
that I could only conjecture she was, as she was, _his_ mother. A
woman was she like, in the outlines of her beauty, to the Medicis and
Colonnas, those queens of historic poesy; unlike in that beauty's
aspect which was beneficent as powerful, though I traced no trait of
semblance between her and her super-terrestrial son. She sat like an
empress, dressed in black, with a superb eye-glass, one star of
diamonds at its rim, in her hand; but still and stately, and unsmiling
as she was, she was ever turned slightly towards him, who, placed by
her side, almost nestled into the sable satin of her raiment. He was
also dressed in black, this day, and held in those exquisite hands a
tiny pair of gloves, which he now swung backwards and forwards in time
to the movement of our orchestra, and then let fall upon the floor;
when that stately mother would stoop and gather them up, and he would
receive them with a flashing smile, to drop them again with
inadvertence, or perhaps to slide into them his slender fingers.
Hardly had I seen and known him before I saw and recognized another
close beside him. If _he_ were small and sylphid, seated by his
majestic mother, how tiny was that delicate satellite of his, who was
nestled as close to his side as he to hers. It was my own, my little
Starwood, so happily attired in a dove-colored dress, half frock, half
coat, trimmed with silver buttons, and holding a huge nosegay in his
morsels of hands. I had scarcely time to notice him after the first
flush of my surprise; but it was impossible to help seeing that my pet
was as happy as he could well be, and that he was quite at home.
Next Starwood was a brilliant little girl with long hair, much less
than he, nursing a great doll exquisitely dressed; and again, nearest
the doll and the doll's mamma, I perceived a lady and a pair of
gentlemen, each of whom, as to size, would have made two Seraphaels.
They were all very attentive, apparently, except the Chevalier; and
though he was still by fits, I knew he was not attending, from the
wandering, wistful gaze, now in the roof, now out at the windows, now
downcast, shadowy, and anon flinging its own brightness over my soul,
like a sunbeam astray from the heavens of Paradise. When at length the
point in the programme, so dearly longed for, was close at hand, he
slid beneath the flowery balustrade, and as noiselessly as in our
English music-hall, he took the stairs, and leaned against the desk
until the moment for taking possession. Then when he entered, still so
inadvertent, the applause broke out, gathering, rolling, prolonging
itself, and dissolving like thunder in the mountains.
I especially enjoyed the fervent shouts of Anastase; his eye as clear
as fire, his strict frame relaxed. Almost before it was over, and as
if to elude further demonstrations, though he bowed with courteous
calmness, Seraphael signed to us to begin. Then, midst the delicious,
yet heart-wringing ice tones, shone out those beaming lineaments; the
same peculiar and almost painful keenness turned upon the sight the
very edge of beauty. Fleeting from cheek to brow, the rosy lightnings,
his very heart's flushes, were as the mantling of a sudden glory.
But of his restless and radiant eyes I could not bear the stressful
brightness, it dimmed my sight; whether dazzled or dissolved, I know
not. And yet,--will it be believed?--affectionate, earnest, and
devoted as was the demeanor of those about me, no countenance
glistened except my own in that atmosphere of bliss. Perhaps I
misjudge; but it appears to me that pure Genius is as unrecognizable
in human form as was pure Divinity. I encroach upon such a subject no
further. To feel, to feel exquisitely, is the lot of very many,--it is
the charm that lends a superstitious joy to fear; but to appreciate
belongs to the few, to the one or two alone here and there,--the
blended passion and understanding that constitute, in its essence,
worship.
I did not wonder half so much at the strong delight of the audience in
the composition. How many there are who _perceive_ art as they
perceive beauty,--perceive the fair in Nature, the pure in
science,--but receive not what these intimate and symbolize; how much
more fail in realizing the Divine ideal, the soul beyond the sight,
the ear!
Here, besides, there were plenty of persons weary with mediocre
impressions, and the effect upon them was as the fresh sea-breeze to
the weakling, or the sight of green fields after trackless deserts. I
never, never can have enough,--is _my_ feeling when that exalted music
overbrims my heart; sensation is trebled; the soul sees double; it is
as if, brooding on the waste of harmony, the spirit met its shadow,
like the swan, and embraced it as itself. I do not know how the
composition went, I was so lost in the author's brightness face to
face; but I never knew anything go ill under his direction. The
sublimity of the last movement, so sudden yet complete in its
conclusion, left the audience in a trance; the spell was not broken
for a minute and a half, and then burst out a tremendous call for a
repeat. But woe to those fools! thought I. It was already too late;
with the mystical modesty of his nature, Seraphael had flown
downstairs, forgetting the time-stick, which he held in his hand
still, and which he carried with him through the archway. As soon as
it was really felt he had departed, a great cry for him was set
up,--all in vain; and a deputation from the orchestra was instructed
to depart and persuade him to return: such things were done in Germany
in those days! Anastase was at the head of this select few, but
returned together with them discomfited; no Seraphael being, as they
asserted, to be found. Anastase announced this fact, in his rare
German, to the impatient audience, not a few of whom were standing
upright on the benches, to the end that they might make more clatter
with their feet than on the firmer floor. As soon as all heard, there
was a great groan, and some stray hisses sounded like the erection of
a rattlesnake or two; but upon second thoughts the people seemed to
think they should be more likely to find him if they dispersed,--though
what they meant to do with him when they came upon him I could not
conjecture, so vulgar did any homage appear as an offering to that
fragrant soul. My dear Millicent and her spouse waited patiently,
though they looked about them with some curiosity, till the crowd grew
thin; and then, as the stately party underneath me made a move and
disappeared through the same curtain that had closed over Seraphael, I
darted downwards past the barrier and climbed the intervening forms to
my sister and brother. Great was my satisfaction to stand there and
chatter with them; but presently Davy suggested our final departure,
and I recollected to have left my fiddle in the orchestra, not even
sheltered by its cradle, but where every dust could insult its face.
"Stay here," I begged them, "and I will run and put it by; I will not
keep you waiting five minutes."
"Fly, my dear boy," cried Davy, "and we will wait until you return,
however long you stay."
I did not _mean_ to stay more than five minutes, nor should I have
delayed, but for my next adventure. When I came to my door, which I
reached in breathless haste, lo! it was fastened within, or at least
would not be pulled open. I was cross, for I was in a hurry, and very
curious too; so I set down my violin, to bang and push against the
door. I had given it a good kick, almost enough to fracture the panel,
when a voice came creeping through that darkness, "Only wait one
little moment, and don't knock me down, please!" I knew that voice,
and stood stoned with delight to the spot, while the bolt slid softly
back in some velvet touch, and the door was opened.
"Oh, sir!" I cried, as I saw the Chevalier, looking at that instant
more like some darling child caught at its pretty mischief than the
commanding soul of myriads, "oh, sir! I beg your pardon. I did not
know you were here."
"I did not suppose so," he answered, laughing brightly. "I came here
because I knew the way, and because I wanted to be out of the way. It
is I who ought to beg _thy_ pardon, Carlomein."
"Oh, sir! to think of your coming into my room,--I shall always like
to think you came. But if I had only known you were here, I would not
have interrupted you."
"And I, had I known thou wouldst come, should not have bolted thy
door. But I was afraid of Anastase, Carlomein."
"Afraid of Anastase, sir,--of _Anastase_?" I could find no other
words.
"Yes, I am of Anastase even a little afraid."
"Oh, sir! don't you like him?" I exclaimed; for I remembered Maria's
secret.
"My child," said the Chevalier, "he is as near an angel as artist can
be,--a ministering spirit; but yet I tell thee, I fear before him. He
is so still, severe, and perfect."
"Perfect! perfect before _you_!"
I could have cried; but a restraining spell was on my soul,--a spell I
could not resist nor appreciate, but in whose after revelation the
reason shone clear of that strange, unwonted expression in Seraphael's
words. Thus, instead, I went on, "Sir, I understand why you came here,
that they might not persecute you,--and I don't wonder, for they are
dreadfully noisy; but, sir, they did not mean to be rude."
"It is I who have been rude, if it were such a thing at all; but it is
not. And now let me ask after what I have not forgotten,--thy health."
"Sir, I am very well, I thank you. And you, sir?"
"I never was so well, thank God! And yet, Carlomein, thy cheek is
thinner."
"Oh! that is only because I grow so tall. My sister, who is just come
from England--" Here I suddenly arrested myself, for my unaddress
stared me in the face. He just laid his little hand on my hair, and
smiled inquiringly, "Oh! tell me about thy sister."
"Sir, she said I looked so very well."
"That's good. But about her,--is she young and pretty?"
"Sir, she is a very darling sister to me, but not pretty at all,--only
very interesting; and she is very young to be married."
"She is married, then?" He smiled still more inquiringly.
"Yes, sir, she is married to Mr. Davy, my musical godfather."
"I remember; and this Mr. Davy, is he here too?" He left off speaking,
and sat upon the side of my bed, tucking up one foot like a little
boy.
"Yes, sir."
"And now, I shall ask thee a favor."
"What is that, sir?"
"That thou wilt let me see her and speak to her; I want to tell her
what a brother she has. Not only so, to invite her--do not be shy,
Carlomein--to my birthday feast."
"Oh, sir!" I exclaimed; and regardless of his presence, I threw myself
into the very length of my bed and covered my face.
"Now, if _thou_ wilt come to my feast, is another question. I have not
reached that yet."
"But please to reach it, sir!" I cried, rendered doubly audacious by
joy.
"But thou wilt have some trouble in coming,--shalt thou be afraid? Not
only to dance and eat sugar-plums."
"It is all the better, sir, if I have something to do; I am never so
well as then."
"But thy sister must come to see thee. She must not meddle, nor the
godpapa either."
"Oh! sir, Mr. Davy could not meddle, and he would rather stay with
Millicent,--but he does sing so beautifully."
He made no answer, but with wayward grace he started up.
"I think they are all gone. Cannot we now go? I am afraid of losing my
_queen_."
"Sir, who is she?"
"Cannot it be imagined by thee?"
"Well, sir, I only know of _one_."
"Thou art right. A queen is only _one_, just like any other lady.
Come, say thou the name; it is a virgin name, and stills the heart
like solitude."
"I don't think that does still."
"Ah! thou hast found that too!"
"Sir, you said you wished to go."
He opened the door, the lock of which he had played with as he stood,
and I ran out first.
The pavilion was crowded. "Oh, dear!" said Seraphael, a little piqued,
"it's exceedingly hot. Canst thou contrive to find thy friends in all
this fuss? I cannot find _mine_."
"Sir, my brother and sister were to wait for me in the concert-hall;
they cannot come here, you know, sir. If I knew your friends, I think
I could find them, even in this crowd."
"No," answered the Chevalier, decisively, as he cast his brilliant
eyes once round the room, "I know they are not here. I do not _feel_
them. Carlomein, I am assured they are in the garden. For one thing,
they could not breathe here."
"Let us go to them to the garden."
He made way instantly, gliding through the assembly, so that they
scarcely turned a head. We were soon on the grass,--so fresh after the
autumn rains. Crossing that green, we entered the lime-walk. The first
person I saw was Anastase. He was walking lonely, and looking down, as
he rarely appeared. So abstracted, indeed, was he that we might have
walked over him if Seraphael had not forced me by a touch to pause,
and waited until he should approach to our hand.
"See," said the Chevalier gleefully, "how solemn he is! No strange
thing, Carlomein, that I should be afraid of him. I wonder what he is
thinking of! He has quite a countenance for a picture."
But Anastase had reached us before I had time to say, as I intended,
"I know of what he is thinking."
He arrested himself suddenly, with a grace that charmed from his cool
demeanor, and swept off his cap involuntarily. Holding it in his hand,
and raising his serious gaze, he seemed waiting for the voice of the
Chevalier. But, to my surprise, he had to wait several moments, during
which they both regarded each other. At last Seraphael fairly laughed.
"Do you know, I had forgotten what I had to say, in contemplating you?
It is what I call a musical phiz, yours."
Anastase smiled slightly, and then shut up his lips; but a sort of
flush tinged his cheeks, I thought.
"Perhaps, Auchester, you can remind the Chevalier Seraphael."
I was so irritated at this observation that I kicked the gravel and
dust, but did not trust myself to speak.
"Oh!" exclaimed Seraphael, quickly, "it was to request of you a
favor,--a favor I should not dare to ask you unless I had heard what I
heard to-day, and seen what I saw."
It might have been my fancy, but it struck me that the tones were
singularly at variance with the words here. A suppressed disdain
breathed underneath his accent.
"Sir," returned Anastase, with scarcely more warmth, "it is impossible
but that I shall be ready to grant any favor in my power. I rejoice to
learn that such a thing is so. I shall be much indebted if you can
explain it to me at once, as I have to carry a message from Spoda to
the Fräulein Cerinthia."
Spoda was Maria's master for the voice.
"Let us turn back, then," exclaimed Seraphael, adroitly. "I will walk
with you wherever you may be going, and tell you on the way."
Seraphael's "I will" was irresistible, even to Anastase.
I suddenly remembered my relations, who would imagine I had gone to a
star on speculation. It was too bad of me to have left them all that
time. My impression that Seraphael had to treat at some length with my
master, induced me to say, "Sir, I have left my brother and sister
ever so long; I must run to them, I think."
"Run, then," said the Chevalier; "thou certainly shouldst, and tell
them what detained thee. But return to me, and bring them with thee."
I conceived this could not be done, and said so.
"I will come to thee, then, in perhaps half an hour. But if thou canst
not wait so long, go home with thy dear friends, and I will write thee
a letter."
I would have given something for a letter, it is true; but I secretly
resolved to wait all day rather than not see him instead, and rather
than _they_ should not see him.
I ran off at full speed; and it was not until I reached the sunny lawn
beyond the leafy shade that I looked back. They were both in the
distance, and beneath the flickering limes showed bright and dark as
sunlight crossed the shadow. I watched them to the end of the avenue,
and then raced on. It was well I did so, or I should have missed Davy
and my sister, who, astonished at my prolonged absence, were just
about to institute a search.
"Oh, Millicent!" I cried, as I breathlessly attained a seat in front
of both their faces, "I am so sorry, but I was obliged to go with the
Chevalier." And then I related how I had found him in my room.
They were much edified; and then I got into one of my agonies to know
what they both thought about him. Davy, with his bright smile at
noonday, said in reply to my impassioned queries, "He certainly is,
Charles, the very handsomest person I have ever seen."
"Mr. Davy! Handsome! I am quite sure you are laughing, or you would
never call him handsome."
"Well, I have just given offence to my wife in the same way. It is
very well for me that Millicent does not especially care for what is
handsome."
"But she likes beauty, Mr. Davy; she likes whatever I like; and I know
just exactly how she feels when she looks at your eyes. What very
beautiful eyes yours are, Mr. Davy! Don't you think so, Millicent?"
Davy laughed so very loud that the echoes called back to him again,
and Millicent said,--
"He knows what I think, Charles."
"But you never told me so much, did you, my love?"
"I like to hear you say 'my love' to Millicent, Mr. Davy."
"And I like to say it, Charles."
"And she likes to hear it. Now, Mr. Davy, about 'handsome.' You should
not call him so,--why do you? You did not at the festival."
"Well, Charles, when I saw this wonderful being at the festival, there
was a melancholy in his expression which was, though touching, almost
painful; and I do not see it any longer, but, on the contrary, an
exquisite sprightliness instead. He was also thinner then, and
paler,--no one can wish to see him so pale; but his colour now looks
like the brightest health. He certainly _is_ handsome, Charles."
"Oh, Mr. Davy, I am sorry you think so! But he does look well. I know
what you mean, and I should think that he must be very happy. But
besides that, Mr. Davy, you cannot tell how often his face changes. I
have seen it change and change till I wondered what was coming next. I
suppose, Mr. Davy, it is his forehead you call handsome?"
"It is the brow of genius, and as such requires no crown. Otherwise, I
should say his air is quite royal. Does he teach here, Charles? Surely
not."
"No, Mr. Davy, but he appoints our professors. I suppose you know he
chose my master, Anastase, though he is so young, to be at the head of
all the violins?"
"No, Charles, it is not easy to find out what is done here, without
the walls."
"No, Mr. Davy, nor within them either. I don't know much about the
Chevalier's private life, but I know he is very rich, and has no
Christian name. He has done an immense deal for Cecilia. No one knows
exactly how much, for he won't let it be told; but it is because he is
so rich, I suppose, that he does not give lessons. But he is to
superintend our grand examination next year."
"You told us so in your last letter, Charles," observed Millicent; and
then I was entreated to relate the whole story of my first
introduction to Cecilia, and of the Volkslied, to which I had only
alluded,--for indeed it was not a thing to write about, though of it I
have sadly written!
I was in the heart of my narration, in the middle of the benches, and,
no doubt, making a great noise, when Davy, who was in front, where he
could see the door, motioned me to silence; I very well knew why, and
obeyed him with the best possible grace.
As soon as I decently could, I turned and ran to meet the Chevalier,
who was advancing almost timidly, holding little Starwood in his hand.
The instant Starwood saw me coming, he left his hold and flew into my
arms; in spite of my whispered remonstrances, he _would_ cling to my
neck so fast that I had to present the Chevalier while his arms were
entwined about me. But no circumstance could interfere with even the
slightest effect _he_ was destined to produce. Standing before Davy,
with his little hands folded and his whole face grave, though his eyes
sparkled, he said, "Will you come to my birthday-feast, kind friends?
For we cannot be strangers with this Carl between us. My birthday is
next week, and as I am growing a man, I wish to make the most of it."
"How old, sir, shall you be on your birthday?" I asked, I fear rather
impertinently, but because I could not help it.
"Ten, Carlomein."
"Oh, sir!" we all laughed, Millicent most of all. He looked at her.
"You are a bride, madam, and can readily understand my feelings when I
say it is rather discomposing to step into a new state. Having been a
child so long, I feel it soon becoming a man; but in your case the
trial is even more obvious."
Millicent now blushed with all her might, as well as laughed, Davy, to
relieve her embarrassment taking up the parable.
"And when, sir, and where, will it be our happiness to attend you?"
"At the Glückhaus, not four miles off. It is a queer place which I
bought, because it suited me better than many a new one, for it is
very old; but I have dressed it in new clothes. I shall hope to make
Charles at home some time or other before we welcome you, that he may
make you, too, feel at home."
"It would be difficult, sir, to feel otherwise in your society," said
Davy, with all his countenance on flame.
"I hope we shall find it so together, and that this is only the
beginning of our friendship."
He held out his hand to Millicent, and then to Davy, with the most
perfect adaptation to an English custom considered uncouth in Germany;
Millicent looking as excited as if she were doing her part of the
nuptial ceremony over again. Meantime, for I knew we must part, I
whispered to Starwood,--"So you are happy enough, Star, I should
suppose?"
"Oh, Charles! too happy. My master was very angry, at first, that the
Chevalier carried me away."
"He carried you away, then? I thought as much. And so Aronach was
angry?"
"Only for a little bit, but it didn't matter; for the Chevalier took
me away in his carriage, and said to master, 'I'll send you a rainbow
when the storm is over.' And oh! Charles, I practise four hours at a
time now, and it never tires me in the least. I shall never play like
_him_, but I mean to be his shadow."
I loved my little friend for this.
"Oh, Charles! I am so glad you are coming to his birthday. Oh,
Charles! I wish I could tell you everything all in a minute, but I
can't."
"Never mind about that, for if you are happy, it is all clear to me.
Only one thing, Star. Tell me what I have got to do on this birthday."
"Charles, it's the silver wedding, don't you know?"
"What, is he going to be married?"
"Who, Carlomein? Starwood won't tell!" said the Chevalier, turning
sharply upon me and bending his eyes till he seemed to peep through
the lashes. "He knows all about it, but he won't tell. Wilt thou, my
shadow? By the by, there is a better word in English,--'chum;' but we
must not talk slang, at least not till we grow up. As for thee,
Carlomein, Anastase will enlighten thee, and thou shalt not be blinded
in that operation, I promise thee. 'Tis nothing very tremendous."
"Charles, I think we detain the Chevalier," observed Davy, ever
anxious; and this time I thought so too.
"That would be impossible, after my detaining _you_; but I think I
must find my mother,--she will certainly think I have taken a walk to
the moon. Come, Stern! Or wilt thou leave me in the lurch for that
Carl of thine?"
"Oh! I beg pardon, sir; please let me come too." And I dearly longed
to "come too," when I saw them leave the hall hand in hand.
"Now, Charles, we will carry you off and give you some dinner."
"I don't want any dinner, Mr. Davy; I must go to Anastase."
"I knew he was going to say so!" said Millicent. "But, Charles, duty
calls first; and if you don't dine we shall have you ill."
"I don't know whether I may go to the inn."
"Oh, yes! Lenhart obtained leave of absence at meals for you as long
as we are here."
"Oh! by the by, Millicent, you said you had only come for one week."
"But, Charles, we may never have such another opportunity."
"Yes," added Davy, "I would willingly _starve_ a month or two for the
sake of this feast."
"Bravo, Mr. Davy. But then, Millicent?"
"Oh, Millicent! she shall starve along with me." We all laughed, and
as we walked out of the courtyard into the bright country, he
continued,--
"You know, Charles, I suppose, what is to be done, musically, at this
birthday?"
"No, Mr. Davy, not in the least; and it is because I did not that I
refused my dinner. After dinner, though, I shall go and call on Maria
Cerinthia, and make her tell me."
"A beautiful name, Charles,--is she a favorite of yours?"
"She is the most wonderful person I ever saw or dreamt of, Millicent;
she does treat me very kindly, but she is above all of us except the
Chevalier."
"Is she such a celebrated singer, then?"
"She is only fifteen; but then she seems older than you are, she is so
lofty, and yet so full of lightness."
"A very good description of the Chevalier himself, Charles."
"Yes, Mr. Davy, and the Chevalier, too, treats her in a very high
manner,--I mean as if he held her to be very high."
"Is she at the school too?"
"She only attends for her lessons; she lives in the town with her
brother, who teaches her himself and her little sister. They are
orphans, and so fond of one another."
I was just about to say, "She is to marry Anastase;" but as I had not
received general permission to open out upon the subject, I forbore.
We dined at our little inn, and then, after depositing Davy by the
side of Millicent, who was reposing,--for he tended her like some
choice cutting from the Garden of Eden,--I set out on my special
errand. On mounting the stairs to Maria's room, I took the precaution
to listen; there were no voices to be heard just then, and I knocked,
was admitted, and entered. In the bright chamber I found my dread
young master certainly in the very best company; for Josephine was
half lost in leaning out of the window, and side by side sat Anastase
and Maria. I did not expect to see him in the least, and felt inclined
to effect a retreat, when she, without turning her eyes, which were
shining full upon his face, stretched out both her lovely hands to me:
and Anastase even said. "Do not go, Auchester, for we had, perhaps,
better consult together."
"Yes, oh, yes, there is room here, Carlino; sit by me."
But having spoken thus, she opened not her lips again, and seemed to
wait upon his silence. I took the seat beside her,--she was between
us; and I felt as one feels when one stands in a flower garden in the
dusk of night, for her spiritual presence as fragrance spelled me, and
the mystery of her passion made its outward form as darkness. Her
white dress was still folded round me, and her hair was still
unruffled; but she was leaning back, and I perceived, for the first
time, that his arm was round her. The slender fingers of his listless
hand rested upon the shoulder near me, and they seemed far too much at
ease to trifle even with the glorious hair, silk-drooping its braids
within his reach. _He_ leaned forwards, and looked from one to the
other of us, his blue eyes all tearless and unperturbed; but there was
a stirring blush upon his cheeks, especially the one at her side, and
so deep it burned that I could but fancy her lips had lately left
their seal upon it,--a rose-leaf kiss. Such a whirl of excitement this
fancy raised around me (I hope I was not preternatural either) that I
could scarcely attend to what was going on.
"The Chevalier Seraphael," said Anastase, in his stilly voice, "has
been writing a two-act piece to perform at his birth-night feast,[4]
which is in honor, not so much of his own nativity, as of his parents
arriving just that day at the twenty-fifth anniversary of their
nuptials. He was born in the fifth year of their marriage, and upon
their marriage-day. We have not too much time to work (but a week), as
I made bold to tell him; but it appears this little work suggested
itself to him suddenly,--in his sleep, as he says. It is a fairy
libretto, and I should imagine of first-rate attraction. This is the
score; and as it is only in manuscript, I need not say all our care is
required to preserve it just as it now is. Your part, Auchester, will
be sufficiently obvious when you look it over with the Fräulein
Cerinthia, as she is good enough to permit you to do so; but you had
better not look at it at all until that time."
"But, sir, she can't undertake to perfect me in the fiddle part, can
she?"
"She could, I have no doubt, were it necessary," said Anastase, not
satirically, but seriously; "but it just happens you are not to play."
"Not to play! Then what on earth am I to do? Sing?"
"Just so,--sing."
"Oh, how exquisite! but I have not sung for ever so long. In a chorus,
I suppose, sir?"
"By no means. You see, Auchester, _I_ don't know your vocal powers,
and may not do you justice; but the Chevalier is pleased to prefer
them to all others for this special part."
"But I never sang to him."
"He has a prepossession, I suppose. At all events, it will be rather a
ticklish position for you, as you are to exhibit yourself and your
voice in counterpart to the person who takes the precedence of all
others in songful and personal gifts."
"Sir,"--I was astonished, for his still voice thrilled with the
slightest tremble, and I knew he meant Maria,--"I am not fit to sing
with her, or to stand by her, I know; but I think perhaps I could
manage better than most other people, for most persons would be
thinking of their own voices, and how to set them off against _hers_;
now I shall only think how to keep my voice down, so that hers may
sound above it, and everybody may listen to it, rather than to mine."
Maria looked continually in her lap, but her lips moved. "Will you not
love him, Florimond?" she whispered, and something more; but I only
heard this.
"I could well, Maria, if I had any love left to bestow; but you know
how it is. I am not surprised at Charles's worship."
It was the first time he had called me Charles, and I liked it very
well,--him better than ever.
"I suppose, sir, I _may_ have a look at the score, though?"
"No, you may not," said Maria, "for I don't mean we should use this
copy. I shall write it all out first."
"But that will be useless," answered Anastase; "he made that copy for
us."
"I beg your pardon; I took care to ask him, and he has only written
out the parts for the instruments. He thinks nothing of throwing about
his writing; but it shall be preserved, for all that."
"And how do you mean to achieve this copy?" demanded Anastase. "When
will it be written?"
"It will be ready to-morrow morning."
"Fräulein Cerinthia!" I cried, aghast, "you are not going to sit up
all night?"
"No, she is not," returned Anastase, coolly; and he left the sofa and
walked to the table in the window where it lay,--a green-bound oblong
volume of no slight thickness. "I take this home with me, Maria; and
you will not see it until to-morrow at recreation time, when I will
arrange for Auchester to join you, and you shall do what you can
together."
"Thanks, sir! but surely you won't sit up all night?"
"No, I shall not, nor will a copy be made. In the first place, it will
not be proper to make a copy. Leave has not been given, and it cannot
be thought of without leave,--did you not know that, Maria? No, I
shall not sit up; I am too well off, and far too selfish, too
considerate perhaps, besides, to wish to be ill."
Maria bore this as if she were thinking of something else,--namely,
Florimond's forehead, on which she had fixed her eyes; and truly, as
he stood in the full light which so few contours pass into without
detriment, it looked like lambent pearl beneath the golden shadow of
his calm brown hair.
My hand was on the back of the sofa; she caught it suddenly in her own
and pressed it, as if stirred to commotion by agony of bliss; and at
the same moment, yet looking on him, she said, "I wonder whether the
Chevalier had so many fine reasons when he chose somebody to
administer the leadership, or whether he did it simply because there
was no better to be had?"
He smiled, still looking at the book, which he had safely imprisoned
between his two arms. "Most likely, in all simplicity. But a leader,
even of an orchestra, under _his_ direction is not a fairy queen."
"Is Herr Anastase to lead the violins, then? How glorious!" I said to
Maria.
"I knew you would say so. What then can go wrong?"
"And now I know what the Chevalier meant when he said, 'I must go find
my queen.' You are to be Titania."
"They say so. You shall hear all to-morrow,--I have not thought about
it, for when Florimond brought me home, I was thinking of something
else."
"He brought you home, then?"
"And told me on the way. But he had to tell me all over again when we
came upstairs."
"But about the rehearsals?"
"We shall rehearse here, in this very room, and also with the
orchestra at a room in the village where the Chevalier will meet us;
for he has his parents staying with him, and they are to know nothing
that is to happen."
"I wish I could begin to study it to-night; I am so dreadfully out of
voice since I had my violin,--I have never sung at all, indeed, except
on Sundays, and then one does not hear one's self sing at all."
"It is of no consequence, for the Chevalier told us your master,
Aronach, told him that your voice was like your violin, but that it
would not do to tell you so, because you might lose it, and your
violin, once gained, you could never lose."
"That is true; but how very kind of him to say so! He need not have
been afraid, though, for all I am so fond of singing. Perhaps he was
afraid of making me vain."
Anastase caught me up quickly. "Carl, do not speak nonsense. No
musicians are vain; no true artists, ever so young: they could no
more be vain than the angels of the Most High!"
"Well said, Florimond!" cried Maria, in a moment. "But it strikes me
that many a false artist, fallen-angel like, indulges in that
propensity; so that it is best to guard against the possibility of
being suspected, by announcing, with free tongues, the pride we have
in our art."
"That is better to be announced by free fingers, or a voice like
thine, than by tongues, however free; for even the false prophet can
prate of truth."
I perceived now the turn they were taking; so I said, "And do miracles
in the name of music too, sir, can't they?--like Marc Iskar, who, I
know, is not a true artist, for all that."
Anastase raised his brows. "True artists avoid personalities: that is
the reason why we should use our hands instead of our tongues. Play a
false artist down by the interpretation of true music; but never
cavil, out of music, about what is false and true."
"Florimond, that is worthy to be your creed! You have mastery; we are
only children."
"And children always chatter,--I remember that; but it is, perhaps,
scarcely fair to blame those who own the power of expression for using
it, when we feel our own tongue cleave to the roof of our mouth."
"So generous, too!" I thought; and the thought fastened on me. I felt
more than ever satisfied that all should remain as it was between
them.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Mendelssohn wrote the "Son and Stranger" in 1829 for the silver
wedding of his parents.