The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a
few words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and
his face had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style,
which, by the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The
nose was now large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and
twinkling, the mouth good in shape, but with an animal expression
about it, the ear very voluminous.
He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was
speckled with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows,
and in gait he was firm and upright.
At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like
to have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the
house. He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some
degree to the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to
the customs of society.
But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to
overcome prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he
soon established himself well in the opinion of both father and
mother. It was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the
consideration of all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.
In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a
happy middle tone,--a grave reticent manner, which never compromised
him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served
to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity,
unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober
and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of
men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency
of exterior.
All this was in public however. In private, in a _tête-à-tête_, Signor
Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every
_tête-à-tête_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other.
Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his
apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or
rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint
which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed
by his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the
different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The
lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a
few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the
fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of
persiflage, completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to
win. Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those
which Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he
succeeded in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a
stoic; he had some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read
sufficient of the history of his own land, to have caught all the
salient points of the glorious past.
Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of
his decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious
or nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a
sort of touchwood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the
stronger powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to
communicate to him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said
made great progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he
had established for himself the character of one of a higher and
nobler character whose lot had fallen in evil days.
"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been
a great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the
advocate of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."
What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without
character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the
characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature
and easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.
He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although
their conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater
progress still with the mother. But with the daughter he made
none--worse than none.
What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he
demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and
disgust toward him that nothing could remove?
I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that
his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a
touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and high-minded
woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment:
they cannot stand the test.
Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith,
honesty, and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the
index of that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether
he gave actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.
Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now
between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's
and mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she
would take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no
explanation.
Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was
firm and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in
soft and humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any
longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but
she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.
More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which
weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the
father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.
She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of
bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can
give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will
never see him again."
Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none.
Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to
give her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any
longer.
There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and
indications intangible to coarser natures discover in others thoughts
and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves.
They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis,
incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart,
bidding them beware of evil.
Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to
conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to
delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse,
but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he
could not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.
He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not
press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to
him. Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery;
for he had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the
unknown language.
Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper
interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his
affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and
form her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a
strange caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy
that her resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor
Guardini arose from her distaste to what he himself considered one of
the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
Yet she showed no distaste for singing: for somehow every day she
would practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste,
acquired a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her
father, notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond
of music; his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong
restraints; and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He
would sit calmly, with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all
the time to that sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions,
thrilling, deep, intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose
to any human eye.
All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious;
and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of
doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and
ask, What is below?
That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had
been refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a
gleam of heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and
coloring. The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of
symmetry and grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked
all these attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in
the world, the father felt their influence in a different manner: with
a sort of abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went, no
farther than a proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was
beautiful indeed. To him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a
beautiful possession, which he had no thought of ever parting
with--something on which his eyes would rest well pleased until they
closed forever. How blessed he might have been in the possession of
such a child could he have comprehended her--could he have divested
his mind of the idea that there was something strange and inharmonious
in her character! Could he have made his heart a woman's heart for but
one hour, all mystery would have been dispelled; but it was
impossible, and it remained.
No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of
another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen
through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That
which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an
after period.
But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I
trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and
daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It
is upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there
be any depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader
would derive pleasure from what follows.