I did not see him again until the next class-night. It was strange to
find the same faces about me; and above all, my two heroines, dressed
exactly as on the first occasion, except that the pink frock was
rather less brilliant. I listened eagerly for those pure tones to
swell, communing with my own, and I was not disappointed. We did not
sing anything that I can specify at present; but it was more than
pleasure--it was vitality--to me to fling out my own buoyant notes far
and wide, supported, as it were, by an atmosphere of commingling
sounds. I suppose, therefore, that I may have been singing very loud
when the daring little head out of the muslin bonnet put itself into
my face and chanted, in strict attention to Davy's rules all the time,
"How beautifully you do sing!" I was hushed for the moment, and should
have been vexed if I had not been frightened; for I was ridiculously
timorous as a child.
She then brought from the crown of her bonnet a paper full of bonbons,
which she opened and presented to me. I replied very sharply, in a low
voice, "I don't eat while I am singing," and should have taken no more
notice of her; but she now raised upon me her large eyes to the full,
and still pushed the bonbon paper at me,--almost in my face too. I was
too well bred to push it away, but too honest not to say, when she
still persisted in offering the saccharine conglomeration, "I don't
like curl papers." The child turned from me with a fierce gesture,
but her eyes were now swimming in tears. I was astonished, angry,
melted. I at length reproached myself; and though I could not bring
myself to touch the colored chocolates, crumbled up as they had been
in her hand, I did condescend to whisper, "Never mind!" and she took
out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
Now, all this while my young lady took no heed, and I felt almost sure
she must have noticed us; but she did not turn to the large-eyed
maiden, and _I_ occupied myself with both. That night again Davy
joined me, and I only managed to catch a glimpse of the muslin
bonneted, holding her bonbons still in one dirty glove, and with the
other taking the hand of a huge, high-shouldered man, going out with
the crowd.
Oh, Davy was too deep for me, and delicate as deep! The next night of
our meeting my number was moved to the other side of my serene
neighbor, who at present divided me from the hazel eyes and the
ringlets. It never occurred to me that _he_ had done it; I thought it
to be a mistake, and fully intended, like a curious manikin, to go
back another time to my old quarters. I could not help looking at the
little one to see whether I was watched. But no; with a coquetry I was
too young to appreciate, and she ought to have been too young to
exercise, she sang with all her might, never once turning her eyes
towards me. I found at length the fascinations of our choral force too
strong not to submerge her slight individuality, and soon I forgot she
was there,--though I never forgot that serene voice breathing by my
side faint prophecies I could not render to myself in any form, except
that they had to do with myself, and with music alike my very own. I
do not think any musical taste was ever fed and fostered early in an
atmosphere so pure as mine; for Lenhart Davy's class, when fully
organized and entirely submitted to him, seemed invested with his own
double peculiarity,--subdued, yet strong. We were initiated this
evening into an ancient anthem, whose effect, when it was permitted to
us to interpret, was such that I could not repress my satisfaction,
and I said aloud, though I did not confront my companion, "That is
something like!" My serene contralto answered, strangely to my
anticipations, and with the superior womanliness I have ascribed to
her, "Is it not glorious?"
It was an anthem in the severe style, that tells so powerfully in
four-voiced harmony; and the parts were copied upon gigantic tablets
in front, against the wall that was Davy's background.
"I cannot see," said the other little creature, pulling the
contralto's black-silk gown.
"I am sorry for you," replied the other, "but I believe that you can
see, Laura, as well as I can; you mean you will not trouble yourself,
or that you are idle to-night."
"And what if I do? I hate those horrid hymn sort of tunes; they will
not be of any use to me."
"Silence!" uttered the voice of Lenhart Davy. There was seldom
occasion for him to say so, but just now there had been a pause before
we repeated the first movement of the anthem.
He told me he had a little leisure that evening, and would take me
home. I was enchanted, and fully meant to ask him to come in with me;
but I actually forgot it until after he had turned away. Margareth
reproved me very seriously; "Your sisters would have asked him in,
Master Charles, to supper." But the fact was, I had been occupied with
my own world too much. I had said to him directly we were in the
street, "Dear Mr. Davy, who are those two girls whose seats are the
nearest to mine?"
"They belong to the class like yourself, as you perceive, but they are
not persons you would be likely to meet anywhere else."
"Why not, sir? I should like to be friends with all the singers."
Davy smiled. "So you may be, in singing, and, I hope, will be; but
they are not all companions for you _out_ of the class. You know that
very well."
"I suppose, sir, you mean that some are poorer than we are, some not
so well brought up, some too old, and all that?"
"I did, certainly; but not only so. You had better not make too many
friends at your time of life,--rather too few than too many. Ask your
mother if I am not correct. You see, she has a right to expect that
you should love home best at present."
"I always should love _home_ best," I answered quickly; and I remember
well how Davy sighed.
"You mean what even every boy must feel, that you should like to make
a home for yourself; but the reward is after the race,--the victory at
the end of the struggle."
It appeared to me very readily that he here addressed something in his
own soul; for his voice had fallen. I urged, "I know it, sir; but do
tell me the names of those two girls,--I won't let them know you told
me."
He laughed long and heartily. "Oh! yes, willingly; you would soon have
heard their names, though. The little one is Laura Lemark, the child
of a person who has a great deal to do with the theatres in this town,
and she is training for a dancer, besides being already a singer in
the chorus at a certain theatre. Your mother would not like you to
visit her, you may be sure; and therefore you should not try to know
her. I placed you near her because she is the most knowing of all my
pupils, except Miss Benette,[7] the young person who sat next you this
evening."
"With the lovely voice? Oh! I should never know _her_ if I wished it."
"You need not wish it; but even if you did, she would never become
troublesome in any respect. She is too calm, too modest."
"And pray, tell me, sir, is she to be a dancer too?"
"No, oh, no! She will decidedly become one of the finest singers in
England, but I believe she will not go upon the stage."
"You call the theatre the stage, sir, don't you?"
"Yes, in this instance."
"But why won't she go upon the stage? Cannot she act?"
"She does not think she is called to it by any special gift."
"Did she say those words, sir?"
"Those very words."
"I thought she would just say them, sir. Does she know you very well?"
"She is my own pupil."
"Oh! out of the class, sir, I suppose?"
"Yes, I teach her in my house."
"Sir, I wish you taught me in your house."
"I should say, too, that I wished it," answered Davy, sweetly; "but
you have a sister to teach you at home, and Clara Benette has no one."
"I should like to have no one--to teach me, I mean,--if you would
teach me. If my mother said yes, would you, sir?"
"For a little while I would with pleasure."
"Why not long, sir? I mean, why only for a little while?"
"Because there are others of whom you ought to learn, and _will_
learn, I am persuaded," he added, almost dreamingly, as he turned me
to the moonlight, now overspread about us, and surveyed me seriously.
"The little violin-face,--you know, Charles, I cannot be mistaken in
those lines."
"I would rather sing, sir."
"Ah! that is because you have not tried anything else."
"But, sir, _you_ sing."
"I suppose that I must say, as Miss Benette does, 'I have a special
gift' that way," replied Davy, laughing.
"You have a special gift all the ways, I think, sir," I cried as I ran
into our house. I told Millicent all he had said, except that Laura
was to be a dancer; and yet I cannot tell why I left this out, for
there was that about her fairly repelling me, and at the same time I
felt as if exposed to some power through her, and could not restrain
myself from a desire to see her again. Millicent told my mother all
that I had said to _her_ the next morning at breakfast. My mother, who
had as much worldliness as any of us, and that was just none, was
mightily amused at my new interests. She could not make up her mind
about the private lessons yet; she thought me too young, and that I
had plenty of time before me,--at present the class was sufficient
excitement, and gave me enough to do. Clo quite coincided here; she,
if anything, thought it rather too much already, though a very good
thing indeed.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] Clara Benette, who plays such an important part in this romance,
has been generally accepted as a sketch of Jenny Lind. The
resemblances are not very close, however. At the time of the opening
of the story she had not made her _debut_, and she did not appear in
England until 1847, the year of Mendelssohn's death. It is true,
however, that she was an intimate friend of the composer and followed
his advice explicitly, and that he was largely instrumental in
introducing her to the English public. She also founded a musical
scholarship in London in his memory.