Turning out of the market-place, a narrow street presented itself:
here were factories and the backs of houses. Again we threaded a
narrow turning: here was an outskirt of the town. It fronted a vast
green space; all building-ground enclosed this quiet corner, for only
a few small houses stood about. Here were no shops and no traffic. We
went on in all haste, and soon my guide arrested himself at a little
green gate. He unlatched it; we passed through into a tiny garden,
trim as tiny, pretty as trim, and enchantingly after my own way of
thinking. Never shall I forget its aspect,--the round bed in the
centre, edged with box as green as moss; the big rose-tree in the
middle of the bed, and lesser rose-trees round; the narrow gravel
walk, quite golden in the sun; the outer edge of box, and outer bed of
heaths and carnations and glowing purple stocks. But above all, the
giant hollyhocks, one on each side of a little brown door, whose
little latticed porch was arched with clematis, silvery as if
moonlight "Minatrost" were ever brooding upon that threshold.
I must not loiter here; it would have been difficult to loiter in
going about the garden, it was so unusually small, and the house, if
possible, was more diminutive. It had above the door two tiny casement
windows, only two; and as my guide opened the little door with a key
he brought out of his pocket, there was nothing to delay our entrance.
The passage was very narrow, but lightsome, for a door was open at
the end, peeping into a lawny kind of yard. No children were tumbling
about, nor was there any kitchen smell, but the rarest of all
essences, a just perceptible cleanliness,--not moisture, but
freshness.
We advanced to a staircase about three feet in width, uncarpeted, but
of a rich brown color, like chestnut skins; so also were the
balusters. About a dozen steps brought us to a proportionate
landing-place, and here I beheld two other little brown doors at
angles with one another. Lenhart Davy opened one of these, and led me
into a tiny room. Oh, what a tiny room! It was so tiny, so rare, so
curiously perfect that I could not help looking into it as I should
have done into a cabinet collection. The casements were uncurtained,
but a green silk shade, gathered at the top and bottom, was drawn
half-way along each. The walls were entirely books,--in fact, the
first thing I thought of was the book-houses I used to build of all
the odd volumes in our parlor closet during my quite incipient years.
But such books as adorned the sides of the little sanctum were more
suitable for walls than mine, in respect of size, being as they were,
or as far as I could see, all music-books, except in a stand between
the casements, where a few others rested one against another. There
was a soft gray drugget upon the floor; and though, of course, the
book-walls took up as much as half the room (a complete inner coat
they made for the outside shell), yet it did not strike me as poking,
because there was no heavy furniture, only a table, rather oval than
round, and four chairs; both chairs and table of the hue I had admired
upon the staircase,--a rich vegetable brown. On the table stood a
square inkstand of the same wood, and a little tray filled with such
odds as rubber, a penknife, sealing-wax, and a pencil. The wood of the
mantelshelf was the same tone, and so was that of a plain piano that
stood to the left of the fireplace, in the only nook that was not
books from floor to ceiling; but the books began again over the piano.
All this wood, so darkly striking the eye, had an indescribably
soothing effect (upon me I mean), and right glad was I to see Mr. Davy
seat himself upon a little brown bench before the piano and open it
carefully.
"Will you take off your hat for a minute or two, my dear boy?" he
asked, before he did anything else.
I laid the beaver upon the oval table.
"Now, tell me, can you sing at all?"
"Yes sir."
"From notes, or by ear?"
"A great deal by ear, but pretty well by notes."
"_From_ notes," he said, correctingly, and I laughed.
He then handed me a little book of chorales, which he fetched from
some out-of-the-way hole beneath the instrument. They were all German:
I knew some of them well enough.
"Oh, yes, I can sing these, I think."
"Try 'Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott.'[5] Can you sing alto?"
"I always do. Millicent says it is proper for boys."
He just played the opening chord _slentando_, and I began. I was
perfectly comfortable, because I knew what I was about, and my voice,
as a child's, was perfect. I saw by his face that he was very much
surprised, as well as pleased. Then he left me alone to sing another,
and then a third; but at last he struck in with a bass,--the purest,
mellowest, and most unshaken I have ever heard, though not strong;
neither did he derange me by a florid accompaniment he made as we went
along. When I concluded the fourth, he turned, and took my hand in
his.
"I knew you could do something for music, but I had no idea it would
be so very sweetly. I believe you will go to the festival, after all.
You perceive I am very poor, or perhaps you do not perceive it, for
children see fairies in flies. But look round my little room. I have
nothing valuable except my books and my piano, and those I bought with
all the money I had several years ago. I dare say you think my house
is pretty. Well, it was just as bare as a barn when I came here six
months ago. I made the shelves (the houses for my precious books) of
deal, and I made that table, and the chairs, and this bench, of deal,
and stained each afterwards; I stained my shelves too, and my piano. I
only tell you this that you may understand how poor I am. I cannot
afford to give you one of these tickets, they are too dear, neither
have I one myself; but if your mother approves, and you like it, I
believe I can take you with me to sing in the chorus."
This was too much for me to bear without some strong expression or
other. I took my hat, hid my face in it, and then threw my arms round
Lenhart Davy's neck. He kissed me as a young father might have done,
with a sort of pride, and I was able to perceive he had taken an
instant fancy to me. I did not ask him whether he led the chorus, nor
what he had to do with it, nor what I should have to do; but I begged
him joyously to take me home directly. He tied on my hat himself, and
I scampered all the way downstairs and round the garden before he
came out of his shell. He soon followed after me, smiling; and though
he asked me no curious question as we went along, I could tell he was
nervous about something. We walked very fast, and in little less than
an hour from the time I left home, I stood again upon the threshold.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] Martin Luther's chorale, "A mighty fortress is our God."