I walked home also, and was tolerably tired. Entering the house as one
at home there, I found nobody at home, no Starwood,--no Chevalier. I
lay upon the sofa in a day-dream or two, and when rested, went out
into the garden. I searched every corner, too, in vain; but wandering
past the dividing hedge, a voice floated articulately over the still
afternoon.
All was calm and warm. The slightest sound made way, and I hesitated
not to scale the green barrier, nowhere too high for me to leap it,
and to approach the parlor of the cottage in that unwonted fashion. I
was in for pictures this while, I suppose; for when I reached the
glass doors that swept the lawn wide open, and could peep through them
without disturbing foot on that soft soil, I saw, indeed, another, a
less impressive, not less expressive, view. Clara sat at her piano,
her side-face was in the light. His own, which I was sure to find
there, in profile also, was immediately behind her; but as he stood,
the shade had veiled him, the shade from the trembling leaves without,
through which one sunbeam shot, and upon the carpet kissed his feet.
She was singing, as I could hear, scarcely see, for her lips opened
not more than for a kiss, to sing. The strains moulded themselves
imperceptibly, or as a warble shaken in the throat of a careless
nightingale that knew no listener.
Seraphael, as he stood apart drinking in the notes with such eagerness
that his lips were also parted, had never appeared to me so borne out
of himself, so cradled in a second nature. I could scarcely have
believed that the face I knew so well had yet an expression hidden I
knew not of; but it was so: kindled at another fire than that which
his genius had stolen from above, his eye was charged, his cheek
flushed.
So exquisitely beautiful they looked together,--he in that soft
shadow, she in that tremulous light,--that at first I noticed not a
third figure, now brought before me. Behind them both, but sitting so
that she could see his face, was Laura,--or rather she half lay; some
antique figures carved in statuary have an attitude as listless, that
bend on monuments, or crouch in relievo. She had both her arms
outspread upon the little work-table, hanging over the edge, the hands
just clasped together, as reckless in repose; her face all colorless,
her eyes all clear, but with scarcely more tinting, were fixed, rapt,
upon Seraphael.
I could not tell whether she was feeding upon his eye, his cheek, or
his beauteous hair; all her life came forth from her glance, but it
spent itself without expression. Still, that deep, that feeding gaze
was enough for me; there was in it neither look of hope nor of
despair, as I could have interpreted it. I did not like to advance,
and waited till my feet were stiff; but neither could I retire.
I waited while Clara, without comment on her part or request of his,
glided from song to _scena_, from the romance of a wilderness to the
simplest troll. Her fingers just touched the keys as we touch them for
the violin solo,--supporting, but unnoticeable. At last, when afraid
to be caught,--for the face of the Chevalier in its new expression I
rather dreaded,--I went back, like a thief, the way I came, and still
more like a thief in that I carried away a treasure of remembrance
from those who knew not they had lost it.
I found Starwood yet out, and roved very impatiently all over the
house until, at perhaps five o'clock, Seraphael came in for something.
The dog in the yard barked out; but I was in no humor to let him
loose, and ran straight into the hall.
"Carlomein," said the Chevalier, "I thought you were in London. Is it
possible, my child, that you have not dined?" and he gave orders for
an instant preparation. "I am truly vexed that I did not know it, but
Stern is gone to his father, and will stay till the last coach
to-night. I thought you would be absent also."
"And so, sir, I suppose you had determined to go without your dinner?"
He smiled.
"Not at all, Carlomein. The fact is, I _have_ dined. I could not
resist La Benetta benedetta. I never knew what young potatoes were
until I tasted them over there."
"I daresay not," I thought; but I was wise enough to hold my tongue.
"Then, sir, I shall dine alone; and very much I shall enjoy it. There
is nothing I like so well as dining alone, except to dine alone with
you."
"Carl! Carl! hadst thou been in that devil when he tempted Eve!
Pardon, but I have come home for a few things, and have promised to
return."
"Sir, if you will not think it rude, I must say that for once in your
life you are enjoying what you confer upon others. I am so glad!"
"I thought it says, 'It is better to give than to receive.' I do like
receiving; but perhaps that is because I cannot give this which I now
receive. Carlomein, there is a spell upon thee; there is a charm about
thee, that makes thee lead all thou lovest to all they love! It is a
thing I cannot comprehend, but am too content to feel."
He ran into his study, and returning, just glanced into the room with
an air of _allegresse_ to bid me adieu; but what had he in his arms,
if it were not the score of his oratorio? I knew its name by this
time; I saw it in that nervous writing which I could read at any
earthly distance,--what was to be done with it, and what then? Was he
going to the rehearsal, or a rehearsal of his own?
I had not been half an hour quiet, playing to myself, having unpacked
my fiddle for the first time since I came to London, when the lady of
the scanty silk arrived at my door and aroused me. Some gentlemen had
called to see the Chevalier, and as he was supposed to be absent, must
see me. I went down into a great, dampish dining-room we had not lived
in at all, and found three or four worthies, a deputation from the
band and chorus, who had helplessly assembled two hours ago in London,
and were at present waiting for the conductor.
It was no pleasant task to infringe the fragrant privacy of the
cottage, but I had to do it. I went to the front gate this time, and
sent up a message, that I might not render myself more intrusive than
necessary. He came down as upon the wings of the wind, with his hat
half falling from his curls, and flew to the deputation without a
syllable to me; they carried him off in triumph so immediately that I
could only fancy he looked annoyed, and may have been about that
matter mistaken.
Certainly Clara was not annoyed, whom I went in-doors to see; Laura
had vanished, and she herself was alone in the room, answering my
first notes of admiration merely, "Yes, I have sung to him a good
while." I was, however, so struck with the change, not in manner, but
in her mien, that I would stay on to watch, at the risk of being in
the way more than ever in my days. Since I had entered, she had not
once looked up; but an unusual flush was upon her face, she appeared
serious, but intent,--something seemed to occupy her. At last, after
turning about the music-sheets that strewed the chamber everywhere,
and placing them by in silence,--and a very long time she took,--she
raised her eyes. Their lustre was indeed quickened; never saw I so
much excitement in them; they were still not so grave as
significant,--full of unwonted suggestions. I ventured to say then,--
"And now, Miss Benette, I may ask you what you feel about the
personality of this hero?"
I could not put it better; she replied not directly, but came and sat
beside me on the sofa, by the window. She laid her little hands in her
lap, and her glance followed after them. I could see she was
inexpressibly burdened with some inward revelation. I could not for a
moment believe she trembled, but certainly there was a quiver of her
lips; her silken curls, so calm, did not hide the pulsation,
infantinely rapid, of those temples where the harebell-azure veins
pencilled the rose-flower skin. After a few moments' pause, during
which she evidently collected herself, she addressed me, her own sweet
voice as clear as ever, but the same trouble in it that touched her
gaze.
"Sir, I am going to tell you something, and to ask your advice
besides."
"I am all attention!" indeed, I was in an agony to attend and learn.
"I have had a strange visitor this morning,--very sudden, and I was
not prepared. You will think me very foolish when you hear what is the
matter with me, that I have not written to Mr. Davy; but I prefer to
ask you. You are more enlightened, though you are so young."
"Miss Benette, I know your visitor; for on returning home next door, I
missed my master, and I knew he could be only here. What has he done
that could possibly raise a difficulty, or said that could create a
question? He is my unerring faith, and should be yours."
"I do not wonder; but I have not known him so long, you see, and
contemplate him differently. I had been telling him, as he requested
to know my plans, of the treatment I had received at the opera, and
how I had not quite settled whether to come out now or next year as an
actress. He answered,--
"'Do neither.'
"I inquired why?
"'You must not accept any engagement for the stage in England, and
pray do not hold out to them any idea that you will.'
"Now, what does he mean? Am I to give up my only chance of being able
to live in England? For I wish to live here. And am I to act
unconscientiously? For my conscience tells me that the pure-hearted
should always follow their impulses. Now, I know very few persons; but
I am born to be known of many,--at least I suppose so, or why was I
gifted with this voice, my only gift?"
"Miss Benette, you cannot suppose the Chevalier desires your voice to
be lost. Has he not been informing and interpenetrating himself with
it the whole morning? He has a higher range in view for you, be
assured, or he had not persuaded you, _I_ am certain, to annul your
present privileges. He has the right to will what he pleases."
"And are we all to obey him?"
"Certainly; and only him,--in matters musical. If you knew him as I
do, you would feel this."
"But is it like a musician to draw me away from my duty?"
"Not obviously; but there may be no duty here. You do not know how
completely, in the case of dramatic, and indeed of all other art, the
foundations are out of course."
"You mean they do not fulfil their first intentions. But then nothing
does, except, certainly, as it was first created. We have lost that
long."
"Music, Miss Benette, it appears to me, so long as it preserves its
purity, may consecrate all the forms of art by raising them into its
own atmosphere,--govern them as the soul the body. But where music is
itself degraded, its very type defaced, its worship rendered
ridiculous, its nature mere name, by its own master the rest falls. I
know not much about it, but I know how little the drama depends on
music in this country, and how completely, in the first place, one
must lend one's self to its meanest effect in order to fulfil the
purpose of the writer. All writers for the stage have become profane,
and dramatic writers whom we still confess to, are banished from the
stage in proportion to the elevation of their works. I even go so far
as to think an artist does worse who lends an incomparable organ to
such service than an unheeded player (myself, for example), who
should form one in the ranks of such an orchestra as that of our
opera-houses, where the bare notion or outline of harmony is all that
is provided for us. While the idea of the highest prevails with us,
our artist-life must harmonize, or Art will suffer,--and it suffers
enough now. I have said too long a say, and perhaps I am very
ignorant; but this is what I think."
"You cannot speak too much, sir, and you know a great deal more than I
do. My feeling was that I could perhaps have shown the world that
simplicity of life is not interfered with by a public career, and that
those who love what is beautiful must also love what is good, and
endeavor to live up to it besides. I have spoken to several musicians
abroad, who came to me on purpose; they all extolled my voice, and
entreated me to sing upon the stage. I did so then because I was poor
and had several things I wished to do; but I cannot say I felt at home
with music on the stage in Italy. The gentleman who was here to-day
was the first who disturbed my ideas and dissuaded me. I was
astonished, not because I am piqued,--for you do not know how much I
should prefer to live a quiet life,--but because everybody else had
told me a different story. I do not like to think I shall only be able
to sing in concerts, for there are very few concerts that content me,
and I do so love an orchestra. Am I to give it all up? If this
gentleman had said, 'Only sing in this opera or that,' I could have
made up my mind. But am I never to sing in any? Am I to waste my voice
that God gave me as he gives to others a free hand or a great
imagination? You cannot think so, with all your industry and all your
true enthusiasm."
"Miss Benette, you must not be shocked at what I shall now say,
because I mean it with all reverence. I could no more call in
question the decision of such genius than I could that of Providence
if it sent me death-sickness or took away my friends. I am certain
that the motive, which you cannot make clear just yet, is that you
would approve of."
"And you also, sir?"
"And I also, though it is as dark to me as to you. Let it stand over,
then; but for all our sakes do not thwart him,--he has suffered too
much to be thwarted."
"Has he suffered? I did not know that."
"Can such a one live and not suffer? A nature which is all love,--an
imagination all music?"
"I thought that he looked delicate, but very happy,--happy as a child
or an angel. I have seen your smile turn bitter, sir,--pardon,--but
never his. I am sure, if it matters to him that I should accede, I
will do so, and I cannot thank you enough for telling me."
"Miss Benette, if you are destined to do anything great for music, it
may be in one way as well as in another; that is, if you befriend the
greatest musician, it is as much as if you befriended music. Now you
cannot but befriend him if you do exactly as he requests you."
"In all instances, you recommend?"
"_I_, at least, could refuse him nothing. The nourishment such a
spirit requires is not just the same as our own, perhaps, but it must
not the less be supplied. If I could, now, clean his boots better than
any one else, or if he liked my cookery, I would give up what I am
about and take a place in his service."
"What! you would give up your violin, your career, your place among
the choir of ages?"
"I would; for in rendering a single hour of his existence on earth
unfretted,--in preserving to him one day of ease and comfort,--I
should be doing more for all people, all time, at least for the ideal,
who will be few in every age, but many in all the ages, and who I
believe leaven society better than a priesthood. I would not say so
except to a person who perfectly understands me; for as I hold laws to
be necessary, I would infringe no social or religious _régime_ by one
heterodox utterance to the ear of the uninitiated: still, having said
it, I keep to my text, that you must do exactly as he pleases. He has
not set a seal upon your throat at present, if you have been singing
all the morning."
"I have been singing from his new great work. There is a contralto
solo, 'Art Thou not from Everlasting?' which spoiled my voice; I could
not keep the tears down, it was so beautiful and entreating. He was a
little angry at me; at least he said, 'You must not do that.' There is
also a very long piece which I scarcely tried, we had been so long
over the other, which he made me sing again and again until I composed
myself. What a mercy Mr. Davy taught us to read so fast! I have found
it help me ever since. Do you mean to go to this oratorio?"
"I am to go with Miss Lawrence. How noble, how glorious she is!"
"Your eyes sparkle when you speak of her. I knew you would there find
a friend."
"I hope you, too, will hear it, Miss Benette. I shall speak to the
Chevalier about it."
"I pray you not to do so; there will not be any reason, for I find out
all about those affairs. Take care of yourself, Mr. Auchester, or
rather make Miss Lawrence take care of you; she will like to have to
do so."
"I must go home, if it is not to be just yet, and return on purpose
for the day."
"But that will fatigue you very much,--cannot you prevent it? One
ought to be quiet before a great excitement."
"Oh! you have found that. I cannot be quiet until afterwards."
"I have never had a great excitement," said Clara, innocently; "and I
hope I never may. It suits me to be still."
"May that calm remain in you and for you with which you never fail to
heal the soul within your power, Miss Benette!"
"I should indeed be proud, Mr. Auchester, to keep you quiet; but that
you will never be until it is forever."
"In that sense no one could, for who could ever desire to awaken from
that rest? And from all rest here it is but to awaken."
I felt I ought to go, or that I might even remain too long. It was
harder at that moment to leave her than it had ever been before; but I
had a prescience that for that very reason it was better to depart.
Starwood had returned, I found, and was waiting about in the evening,
before the candles came.
We both watched the golden shade that bound the sunset to its crimson
glow, and then the violet dark, as it melted downwards to embrace the
earth. We were both silent, Starwood from habit (I have never seen
such power of abstraction), I by choice. An agitated knock came
suddenly, about nine, and into the room bounced the big dog, tearing
the carpet up with his capers. Seraphael followed, silent at first as
we; he stole after us to the window, and looked softly forth. I could
tell even in the uncertain silver darkness of that thinnest shell of
a moon that his face was alight with happiness, an ineffable
gentleness,--not the dread alien air of heaven, soothing the passion
of his countenance. He laid for long his tiny hand upon my shoulder,
his arm crept round my neck, and drawing closer still, he sighed
rather than said, after a thrilling pause,--
"Carlomein, wilt thou come into my room? I have a secret for thee; it
will not take long to tell."
"The longer the better, sir."
We went out through the dark drawing-room, we came to his
writing-chamber; here the white sheets shone like ghosts in the bluish
blackness, for we were behind the sunset.
"We will have no candles, because we shall return so soon. And I love
secrets told in the dark, or between the dark and light. I have
prevented that child from taking her own way. It was very naughty, and
I want to be shriven. Shrive me, Charles."
"In all good part, sir, instantly."
"I have been quarrelling with the manager. He was very angry, and his
whiskers stood out like the bristles of a cat; for I had snatched the
mouse from under his paw, you see."
"The mouse must have been glad enough to get away, sir. And you have
drawn a line through her engagement? She has told me something of it,
and we are grateful."
"I have cancelled her engagement! Well, this one,--but I am going to
give her another. She does not know it, but she will sing for me at
another time. Art thou angry, Carl? Thou art rather a dread
confessor."
"I could not do anything but rejoice, sir. How little she expects to
bear such a part! She is alone fitted for it; an angel, if he came
into her heart, could not find one stain upon his habitation."
"The reason you take home to you, then, Carlomein?"
"Sir, I imagine that you consider her wanting in dramatic power; or
that as a dramatic songstress under the present dispensation she would
but disappoint herself, and perhaps ourselves; or that she is too
delicately organized,--which is no new notion to me."
"All of these reasons, and yet not one,--not even because, Carlomein,
in all my efforts I have not written directly for the stage, nor
because a lingering recollection ever forbids profane endeavor. There
is yet a reason, obvious to myself, but which I can scarcely make
clear to you. Though I would have you know, and learn as truth, that
there is nothing I take from this child I will not restore to her
again, nor shall she have the lesson to be taught to feel that in
heaven alone is happiness."
He made a long, long pause. I was in no mood to reply, and it was not
until I was ashamed of my own silence that I spoke; then my own
accents startled me. I told Seraphael I must return on the morrow to
my own place if I were to enjoy at length what Miss Lawrence had set
before me. He replied that I must come back to him when I came, and
that he would write to me meantime.
"If I can, Carlomein; but I cannot always write even, my child, to
thee. There is one thing more between us,--a little end of business."
He lit with a waxen match a waxen taper, which was coiled into a
brazen cup; he brought it from the mantelshelf to the table; he took a
slip of paper and a pen. The tiny flame threw out his hand, of a
brilliant ivory, while his head remained in flickering shadow,--I
could trace a shadow smile.
"Now, Carlomein, this brother of yours. His name is David, I think?"
"Lenhart Davy, sir."
"Has he many musical friends?"
"Only his wife particularly so,--the class are all neophytes."
"Well, he can do as he pleases. Here is an order."
He held out the paper in a regal attitude, and in the other hand
brought near the tremulous taper, that I so might read. It was,--
ABBEY CHOIR, WESTMINSTER.
Admit Mr. Lenhart Davy and party 21st June.
SERAPHAEL.
I could say nothing, nor even essay to thank him,--indeed he would not
permit it, as I could perceive. We returned directly to the
drawing-room, and roused Starwood from a blue study, as the Chevalier
expressed it.
"I am ready, and Miss Lemark is tired of waiting for both of us," said
Miss Lawrence, as she entered that crown of days, the studio; "I have
left her in the drawing-room. And, by the way, though it is nothing to
the purpose, she has dressed herself very prettily."
"I do not think it is nothing to the purpose,--people dress to go to
church, and why not, then, to honor music? You have certainly
succeeded also, Miss Lawrence, if it is not impertinent that I say
so."
"It is not impertinent. You will draw out the colors of that bit of
canvas, if you gaze so ardently."
It was not so easy to refrain. That morning the pictured presence had
been restored to its easel, framed and ready for inspection. I had
indeed lost myself in that contemplation; it was hard to tear myself
from it even for the embrace of the reality. The border, dead gold,
of great breadth and thickness, was studded thickly with raised bright
stars, polished and glittering as points of steel. The effect thus
seemed conserved and carried out where in general it abates. I cannot
express the picture; it was finished to that high degree which
conceals its own design, and mantles mechanism with pure suggestion. I
turned at length and followed the paintress; my prospects more
immediate rushed upon me.
Our party, small and select as the most seclusive spirit could ask
for, consisted of Miss Lawrence and her father,--a quiet but genuine
amateur he,--of Miss Lemark, whom my friend had included without a
question, with Starwood and myself. We had met at Miss Lawrence's, and
went together in her carriage. She wore a deep blue muslin
dress,--blue as that summer heaven; her scarf was gossamer, the hue of
the yellow butterfly, and her bonnet was crested with feathers
drooping like golden hair. Laura was just in white; her Leghorn hat
lined with grass-green gauze; a green silk scarf waved around her.
Both ladies carried flowers. Geraniums and July's proud roses were in
Miss Lawrence's careless hand, and Laura's bouquet was of myrtle and
yellow jasmine.
We drove in that quiet mood which best prepares the heart. We passed
so street by street, until at length, and long before we reached it,
the gray Abbey towers beckoned us from beyond the houses, seeming to
grow distant as we approached, as shapes of unstable shadow, rather
than time-fast masonry.
Into the precinct we passed, we stayed at the mist-hung door. It was
the strangest feeling--mere physical sensation--to enter from that
searching heat, those hot blue heavens, into the cool, the dream of
dimness, where the shady marbles clustered, and the foot fell dead and
awfully, where hints more awful pondered, and for our coming waited.
Yea, as if from far and very far, as if beyond the grave descending,
fell wondrous unwonted echoes from the tuning choir unseen.
Involuntarily we paused to listen, and many others paused,--those of
the quick hand or melodious forehead, those of the alien aspect who
ever draw after music. Now the strings yearned fitfully,--a sea of
softest dissonances; the wind awoke and moaned; the drum detonated and
was still; past all the organ swept, a thundering calm.
Entering, still hushed and awful, the centre of the nave, we caught
sight of the transept already crowded with hungering, thirsting faces;
still they too, and all there hushed and awful. The vision of the
choir itself, as it is still preserved to me, is as a picture of
heaven to infancy. What more like one's idea of heaven than that
height, that aspiring form,--the arches whose sun-kissed summits
glowed in distance, whose vista stretched its boundaries from the
light of rainbows at one end, on the other to the organ, music's
archetype? Not less powerful, predominating, this idea of our other
home, because no earthly flowers nor withering garlands made the
thoughts recoil on death and destiny,--the only flowers there, the
rays transfused through sun-pierced windows; the blue mist strewing
aisle and wreathing arch, the only garlands. Nor less because for once
an assembly gathered of all the fraternities of music, had the unmixed
element of pure enthusiasm thrilled through the "electric chain" from
heart to heart. Below the organ stood Seraphael's desk, as yet
unhaunted; the orchestra; the chorus, as a cloud-hung company, with
starlike faces in the lofty front.
I knew not much about London orchestras, and was taking a particular
stare, when Miss Lawrence whispered in a manner that only aroused, not
disturbed me: "There is our old friend Santonio. Do look and see how
little he is altered!"
I caught his countenance instantly,--as fine, as handsome, a little
worn at its edges, but rather refined by that process than otherwise.
"I did not ask about him, because I did not know he was in London. He
is, then, settled here; and is he very popular?"
"You need not ask the question; he is too true to himself. No,
Santonio will never be rich, though he is certainly not poor."
Then she pointed to me one head and another crowned with fame; but I
could only spare for them a glance,--Santonio interested me still. He
was reminding me especially of himself as I remembered him, by laying
his head, as he had used to do, upon the only thing he ever really
loved,--his violin,--when, so quietly as to take us by surprise,
Seraphael entered, I may almost say rose upon us, as some new-sprung
star or sun.
Down the nave the welcome rolled, across the transept it overflowed
the echoes; for a few moments nothing else could be felt, but there
was, as it were, a tender shadow upon the very reverberating
jubilance,--it was subdued as only the musical subdue their proud
emotions; it was subdued for the sake of one whose beauty, lifted over
us, appeared descending, hovering from some late-left heaven, ready to
depart again, but not without a sign, for which we waited.
Immediately, and while he yet stood with his eyes of power upon the
whole front of faces, the solo-singers entered also and took their
seats all calmly.
There were others besides Clara, but besides her I saw nothing, except
that they were in colors, while she wore black, as ever; but never had
I really known her loveliness until it shone in contrast with that
which was not so lovely. More I could not perceive, for now the
entering bar of silence riveted; we held our breath for the coming of
the overture.[8]
It opened like the first dawn of lightening, yet scarce yet lightened
morning, its vast subject introduced with strings alone in that joyous
key which so often served him, yet as in the extreme of vaulting
distance; but soon the first trombone blazed out, the second and third
responding with their stupendous tones, as the amplifications of fugue
involved and spread themselves more and more, until, like glory
filling up and flooding the height of heaven from the heaven of
heavens itself, broke in the organ, and brimmed the brain with the
calm of an utter and forceful expression, realized by tone. In
sympathy with each instrument, it was alike with none, even as the
white and boundless ray of which all beams, all color-tones are born.
The perfect form, the distinct conception of this unbrothered work,
left our spirits as the sublime fulfilment confronted them. For once
had genius, upon the wings of aspiration, that alone are pure, found
all it rose to seek, and mastered without a struggle all that it
desired to embrace; for the pervading purpose of that creation was the
passioned quietude with which it wrought its way. The vibrating
harmonies, pulse-like, clung to our pulses, then drew up, drew out
each heart, deep-beating and undistracted, to adore at the throne
above from whence all beauty springs. And opening and spreading thus,
too intricately, too transcendentally for criticism, we do not essay,
even feebly, to portray that immortal work of a music-veiled immortal.
Inextricable holiness, precious as the old Hebrew psalm of all that
hath life and breath,[9] exhaled from every modulation, each dropped
celestial fragrances, the freshness of everlasting spring.
Suggestive,--our oratorio suggested nothing here, nothing that we find
or feel; all that we seek and yearn to clasp, but rest in our
restlessness to discover is beyond us! In nothing that form of music
reminded of our forms of worship,--in the day of Paradise it might
have been dreamed of, an antepast of earth's last night, and of
eternity at hand,--or it might be the dream of heaven that haunts the
loving one's last slumber.
I can no more describe the hush that hung above and seemed to
spiritualize the listeners until, like a very cloud of mingling souls,
they seemed congregated to wait for the coming of a Messiah who had
left them long, promising to return; nor how, as chorus after chorus,
built up, sustained, and self-supported, gathered to the stricken
brain, the cloud of spirits sank, as in slumber sweeter than any
dreamful stir, upon the alternating strains and songs, all
softness,--all dread soothing, as the fire that burned upon the
strings seemed suddenly quenched in tears. Faint supplications wafted
now, now deep acclaims of joy; but all, all surcharged the spirit
alike with the mysterious thrall and tenderness of that uncreate and
unpronounceable Name, whose eternal love is all we need to assure us
of eternal life.
It was with one of those alternate strains that Clara rose to sing,
amidst silence yet unbroken, and the more impressive because of the
milder symphony that stole from the violoncello, its meandering pathos
asking to support and serve her voice. Herself penetrated so deeply
with the wisdom of genius, she failed to remind us of herself; even
her soft brow and violet eyes--violet in the dense glory of the Abbey
afternoon light--were but as outward signs and vivid shadows of the
spirit that touched her voice. Deeper, stiller than the violoncello
notes, hers seemed as those articulated, surcharged with a revelation
beyond all sound.
Calm as deep, clear as still, they were yet not passionless; though
they clung and moulded themselves strictly to the passion of the
music, lent not a pulse of their own; nor disturbed it the rapt
serenity of her singing to gaze upon her angel-face. No child could
have seemed less sensitive to the surrounding throng, nor have
confided more implicitly in the father of its heart, than she leaned
upon Seraphael's power.
I made this observation afterwards, when I had time to think; at
present I could only feel, and feeling know, that the intellect is but
the servant of the soul. When at length those two hours, concentrating
such an eternity in their perfection of all sensation, had reached
their climax, or rather when, brightening into the final chorus,
unimprisoned harmonies burst down from stormy-hearted organ, from
strings all shivering alike, from blasting, rending tubes, and thus
bound fast the Alleluia,--it was as if the multitude had sunk upon
their knees, so profound was the passion-cradling calm. The
blue-golden lustre, dim and tremulous, still crowned the unwavering
arches,--tender and overwrought was laid that vast and fluctuating
mind. So many tears are not often shed as fell in that silent
while,--dew-stilly they dropped and quickened; but still not all had
wept.
Many wept then who had never wept before; many who had wept before
could not weep now,--among them I. Our party were as if lost to me; as
I hid my face my companion did not disturb me,--she was too far
herself in my own case. I do not know whether I heard, but I was aware
of a stretching and breathing; the old bones stirring underneath the
pavement would have shaken me less, but could not have been less to my
liking; the rush, however soft, the rustle, however subdued, were
agony, were torment: I could only feel, "Oh that I were in heaven!
that I might never return to earth!" But then it came upon me, to that
end we must all be changed. This was sad, but of a sadness peculiarly
soothing; for could we be content to remain forever as we are here,
even in our holiest, our strongest moments?
During the last reverberations of that unimaginable Alleluia I had not
looked up at all; now I forced myself to do so, lest I should lose my
sight of _him_,--his seal upon all that glory. As Seraphael had risen
to depart, the applause, stifled and trembling, but not the less by
heartfuls, rose for him.
He turned his face a moment,--the heavenly half-smile was there; then
at that very moment the summer sun, that, falling downwards in its
piercing glare, glowed gorgeous against the flower-leaf windows, flung
its burning bloom, its flushing gold upon that countenance. We all saw
it, we all felt it,--the seraph-strength, the mortal beauty,--and that
it was pale as the cheek of the quick and living changed in
death,--that his mien was of no earthly triumph!
FOOTNOTES:
[8] The Lobgesang, or Hymn of Praise.
[9] The majestic phrase with which the symphony opens, and which also
appears in the vocal parts ("All that has life and breath"), is the
Intonation to the second tone of the Magnificat.