"'The greatest singer in England.' Yes, that is what I heard," said
Tom, patting Betsy's hand, which he held affectionately in his own. He
had made quite an art of fondling hands, having been for four years in
Italy. The family had returned to the drawing-room after supper, but
as Mr. Linley and his son had begun to talk about music, the younger
members had escaped to another apartment, the better to push on a
nursery quarrel as to the respective value of their presents. The
novelty of a newly returned elder brother was beginning to decline;
he had eaten of the pie just as they had eaten of it, and now he was
beginning to talk quite easily of music, when they had fully expected
him to tell them some thrilling stories of Italian brigands full of
bloodshed.
"She has sung better than any singer in England," said the father;
"but that does not make her the greatest singer."
"Pacchierotti is the best critic in the world, and he told a company in
my hearing three months ago that there is no singer in England who can
compare with Miss Linley," said Tom. "Why, the great Agujari herself
allowed that in oratorio she could never produce the same impression as
our Miss Linnet."
"She spoke the truth, then, though she is an Italian," said Mr. Linley.
"Ah, let us talk about something else," cried Betsy. "Why should we
talk of music within the first hour of Tom's return to us? Surely we
might have one evening of pleasure."
Tom ceased fondling her hand and looked seriously into her face. And
now the expression in their eyes was not the same. The soft, beseeching
look that she cast at him was very different from the serious
glance--it had something of reproach in it--with which he regarded her.
"We talk of music because there is nothing else worth talking about in
the world," said he, and she saw with dismay the strange light that
burned in the depths of his eyes, while his glance passed suddenly
beyond her face--passed away from her face, from the room, from the
world altogether. She knew what that light meant, and she shuddered.
She had seen it in Mr. Garrick's face when he was playing in _Hamlet_;
she had seen it in Mr. Gainsborough's face when he was painting the
picture of her and her brother; she had seen it in the plain face of
little Dr. Goldsmith when he had repeated in her hearing the opening
lines of his sublime poem, "The Traveller"; she had seen it in the face
of Mr. Burke when he was making a speech. She knew what it meant--she
knew that that light was the light which men call genius, and she
shuddered. She knew that to have genius is only to have a greater
capacity for suffering than other men. What she did not know was that
people saw the same light in her eyes when she was singing, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth."
"What do you say?" cried the father, springing from his chair with a
hand upraised. "What do you say, my son?"
"I say, sir, that we talk of music because there is nothing else in the
world worth talking about," said Tom stoutly.
With a cry of delight the father threw himself into his son's arms.
"Thank God for that--thank God for that!" he murmured. "You have not
worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed in vain. The truth has been
revealed to you. You are my son."
"Can any one doubt that this is the truth?" said the boy.
Betsy saw that he was careful to avoid looking in her direction. That
was why she felt that he was addressing her personally.
"No, no!" she said, catching his hand again. "No, no, dear Tom; no one
in this house will doubt that music is the only subject worth a word, a
thought. It is our life. Is there any better life? How we can gladden
the hearts of all who come near us! Even at Oxford--I have sung a great
deal at Oxford, you know--I have seen the tears upon the faces of those
men--the most learned men in the world. Just think of a poor ignorant
girl like myself being able to move a learned man to tears! Oh, there
is nothing worth a thought in the world save only music. Let me sing to
you now, Tom; you will be able to say if I have improved."
Tom's face glowed.
"We have wasted an hour over supper," he said, and there was actually
mournfulness in his voice. Happily his mother, the pie-maker, was not
present; she had run from the room at the first mention of music. "I
always think that eating is a huge waste of time. We might have been
singing an hour ago. And what think you of this new instrument--the
forte-piano--father? I have heard it affirmed that it will make even
the harpsichord become obsolete. I laughed, having heard you play the
harpsichord."
"Burney talks much about the forte-piano," said the father. "And Mr.
Bach, who has been giving his concerts in the Thatched House in St.
James's Street, has surprised us all by his playing upon its keyboard;
but, my son, 'tis less refined than my harpsichord."
"No one will ever be able to invent any instrument that will speak to
one as does your violin, Tom," said Betsy. "You need have no fear that
your occupation will soon be gone."
Tom smiled.
"The violin is the only instrument that has got a soul," said he. "Only
God can create a soul. Doubtless God could make another instrument with
a soul, to speak direct to the souls of men, but beyond doubt He has
not done so yet."
"And now you shall awaken all the soul which is in yours, and make it
reveal its celestial mysteries to us," said the father. "I am more than
anxious to learn how you have progressed. I dare swear that you have
not wasted your time in Italy?"
"Heaven only knows if I have done all that was in my power to do," said
the boy, after a curious pause.
He was staring at the furthest corner of the ceiling while he spoke.
Then he got upon his feet and walked across the room and back again
without speaking; then he threw himself down upon a sofa with a sigh.
"Now and again--only now and again--father, I think that I succeed
in reaching the soul of the thing," he said. "After long waiting and
working and longing I sometimes hear its voice speaking to me, and
then I feel that I am very near to God. Surely music is the voice of
God speaking to the soul of man--speaking its message of infinite
tenderness--gladness that is the gladness of heaven.... I think I have
heard it, but not always--only at rare intervals. And I took up the
violin when I was a child as if it were a simple thing--an ordinary
instrument, and not a thing of mystery--a living thing!"
"You have learned the truth since those days!" cried the delighted
father.
"The truth? Who is there alive that has learned the whole truth--the
whole mystery of the violin?" said the boy. "I think that I have crept
a little nearer to it during these years; that is all that I dare to
say."
"You are a musician," said the father, and the tears of joy that were
in his eyes were also in his voice. "The true musician is the one who
fears to speak with assurance. He is never without his doubts, his
fears, his hours of depression, as well as his moments of celestial
joy. I thank heaven that I am the father of a musician."
"I thought that I was a musician until I heard Pugnani," said the son.
"Hearing him showed me that I had not even crossed the threshold of the
temple. Shall I ever forget that day? I was sent by my master with a
message to his house on that hill where the olive-trees mingle with the
oranges and the vines. I remember how the red beams of the sun at its
setting swept across the Arno, and crept among the olives, and blazed
upon the oranges till they seemed like so many lamps half hidden among
the glossy foliage."
"Would that I had been with you!" said Betsy in a twilight voice.
"Ah, if you had but been with me, you would have learned more of music
in half an hour than you could acquire elsewhere in a lifetime," said
her brother.
"He played for you?" said the father.
"Yes, he played. The words are easily said. The villa is a lovely one,
and when I reached the entrance, walking through the orange-grove, the
sun had sunk, and from a solitary oleander a nightingale had begun to
sing in the blue twilight. I stood listening to it, and feeling how
truly Handel had interpreted the bird's song."
"Betsy shall sing you the _aria_ 'Sweet Bird' when you have told us
your story," said Mr. Linley.
"I entered during the first pause, for there was no bell to ring--my
master had told me not to look for a bell or to call for a servant;
the Maestro does not live as other men. The hall was empty; but I
had received my instructions to wait there, and I waited until a
man strolled in after me from the garden. He wore the common blouse
of the Italian peasant, and carried a pruning-knife in one hand and
a huge bunch of grapes in the other. I took him for a gardener,
and the low bow which he made to me confirmed this impression. In
replying to his courteous 'Buona sera, signore,' I told him that if
he should chance to find Signore Pugnani in the villa, I would thank
him greatly if he would let him know that I brought a message from
Maestro Grassi. 'Signore Pugnani will be here presently,' said he. I
thanked him, and, wishing to be civil, I said: 'His garden does you
great credit--you are, I venture to think, his gardener?' 'Alas! sir,'
said he, smiling, 'I am a much humbler person than his gardener. I
have, it is true, dared to cut a bunch of grapes, but I am even now
trembling at my boldness. I shall have to face the gardener before
night, for he is sure to miss it. You are one of Maestro Grassi's
pupils, sir?' he added; and when I assented, 'I, too, am learning to
play the violin,' he said. 'It is very creditable to you to wish to
master the instrument,' said I. 'You must have many opportunities in
this household of hearing good music. Your master is, I believe, one
of the greatest composers. I am overcome with admiration of his night
piece--_La Voce della Notte_, he has called it.' 'I have heard him
play it,' said he--'at least I think I recollect it. I fancy I should
recall it fully if you were to play a few bars of the prelude.' He
picked up a violin which, with its bow, was lying on a cushion on the
settee of the hall, and began tuning it. When he had satisfied himself
that the instrument was in tune, he handed it to me. 'Have you memory
sufficient to play a few bars of the _Andante_?' he inquired. 'Oh, I
can play the thing throughout,' said I eagerly. I prided myself on
having mastered the _Andante_, and I did not hesitate to play it. In
the dimness of that twilight in the hall, through which the scents of
the orange-trees floated--I can perceive the delicate perfume of that
Italian evening still--I played the _Andante_."
The narrator paused, and then, lying back in his chair, he laughed
heartily. His father smiled; his sister was grave.
"You played it creditably, I hope? You were in the presence of the
composer, I begin to see," said Mr. Linley.
"Of course the stranger was Signore Pugnani, but I did not know it
until he had taken the instrument from me," said the son. "He was
courteous in his compliments upon my performance. 'I am but a pupil
of that wonderful instrument,' said he, 'but I clearly perceive that
you treat it with reverence. Would I tire you if I were to submit
to your criticism my recollection of _La Voce della Notte_, sir?' I
replied, of course, that he should find in me an indulgent critic, and
I made up my mind to be indulgent. And then--then--he held the bow for
a long time over the string--I scarce knew when he began to make it
speak. I scarce knew whence the sound came. All the mystery of night
was in that single note; it was an impassioned cry for rest--the rest
brought by night. While it sounded I seemed to hear the far-off cry
of the whole creation that travaileth, yearning for the rest that is
the consummation of God's promises. Again he moved the bow, and that
wailing note increased.... Ah, how can I express the magic of that
playing?... I tell you that in a moment before my eyes the dim hall
was crowded with figures. I sat in amazement watching them. They were
laughing together in groups. Lovely girls in ravishing dishevelment
flung roses up to the roof of the hall, and the blooms, breaking there,
sent a shower of rosy perfumed petals quivering and dancing like
butterflies downward. Children ran to catch the frail falling flakes,
and clapped their hands. Men old and young sang in varying harmonies,
and at intervals of singing quaffed sparkling wine from cups of glass.
Suddenly, while all were in the act of drinking, the goblets fell with
a crash upon the pavement, and the red wine flowed like blood over the
mosaics of the floor. When the crash of the glasses had rung through
the hall there was a moment of deathly silence, and then, far away, I
heard once more the wailing of a great multitude. It drew closer and
closer until men, women, and children in the hall joined in that chorus
of ineffable sadness--that cry of the world for the rest which has been
promised. They lay on the pavement before my eyes, wailing--wailing....
"Silence followed. The hall became dark in a moment; I could not
have seen anything even if my eyes had been dry. They were not dry:
that second wail had moved me as I had never before been moved. The
darkness was stifling. I felt overwhelmed by it, but I could not stir.
I remained bound to my seat by a spell that I could not break. But
just as I felt myself struggling for breath, a long ray of moonlight
slipped aslant the pavement of the hall, and the atmosphere became
less dense. In a few moments the hall was filled with moonlight, and I
saw that, just where the light streamed, there was growing a tree--a
tree of golden fruit that shone in the moon's rays. A little way off a
fountain began to flash, and its sparkling drops fell musically into
the basin beneath the fantastic jets. All at once a nightingale burst
into rapturous song among the foliage. Ah, that song!--the soul of
tranquillity, of a yearning satisfied! While I listened in delight I
breathed the delicate dewy odours which seemed to come from the glossy
leaves that hid the nightingale from sight.
"I do not know how long I listened--how long I tasted of the delight
of that sensation of repose. I only know that I was on my feet
straining to catch the last exquisite notes that seemed to dwindle away
and become a part of the moonlight, when I heard a voice say:
"'I find that my memory is trustworthy. I have played the whole of the
_Voce_. I hope that I find in you a lenient critic, sir.'
"But I was on my knees at his feet, and unable to utter a word. Ah,
it is the recollection of that playing which makes me feel that, even
though I give up my life to the violin, I shall never pass beyond the
threshold of the study."
"Sir," said the father, "you have told us of the effect produced upon
your imagination by the playing of a great musician. But what you have
proved to us is not that Signore Pugnani is a great musician, but that
you are one. Give me your hand, my son; you are a great musician."
Betsy wiped her eyes and sighed.