FAIRY-MUSIC.
The silence that ensued was broken by the voice of the musical young
lady, who had seated herself near us, and was conversing with one of the
newly-arrived guests. “Well!” she said in a tone of scornful surprise.
“We _are_ to have something new in the way of music, it appears!”
I looked round for an explanation, and was nearly as much astonished as
the speaker herself: it was _Sylvie_ whom Lady Muriel was leading to the
piano!
“Do try it, my darling!” she was saying. “I’m sure you can play very
nicely!”
Sylvie looked round at me, with tears in her eyes. I tried to give her
an encouraging smile, but it was evidently a great strain on the nerves
of a child so wholly unused to be made an exhibition of, and she was
frightened and unhappy. Yet here came out the perfect sweetness of her
disposition: I could see that she was resolved to forget herself, and do
her best to give pleasure to Lady Muriel and her friends. She seated
herself at the instrument, and began instantly. Time and expression, so
far as one could judge, were perfect: but her touch was one of such
extraordinary lightness that it was at first scarcely possible, through
the hum of conversation which still continued, to catch a note of what
she was playing.
But in a minute the hum had died away into absolute silence, and we all
sat, entranced and breathless, to listen to such heavenly music as none
then present could ever forget.
Hardly touching the notes at first, she played a sort of introduction in
a minor key—like an embodied twilight; one felt as though the lights
were growing dim, and a mist were creeping through the room. Then there
flashed through the gathering gloom the first few notes of a melody so
lovely, so delicate, that one held one’s breath, fearful to lose a
single note of it. Ever and again the music dropped into the pathetic
minor key with which it had begun, and, each time that the melody forced
its way, so to speak, through the enshrouding gloom into the light of
day, it was more entrancing, more magically sweet. Under the airy touch
of the child, the instrument actually seemed to _warble_, like a bird.
“_Rise up, my love, my fair one_,” it seemed to sing, “_and come away!
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come!_” One
could fancy one heard the tinkle of the last few drops, shaken from the
trees by a passing gust—that one saw the first glittering rays of the
sun, breaking through the clouds.
The Count hurried across the room in great excitement. “I _cannot_
remember myself,” he exclaimed, “of the name of this so charming an air!
It is of an opera, most surely. Yet not even will the _opera_ remind his
name to me! What you call him, dear child?”
[Illustration: ‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’]
Sylvie looked round at him with a rapt expression of face. She had
ceased playing, but her fingers still wandered fitfully over the keys.
All fear and shyness had quite passed away now, and nothing remained but
the pure joy of the music that had thrilled our hearts.
“The title of it!” the Count repeated impatiently. “How call you the
opera?”
“I don’t know what an opera _is_,” Sylvie half-whispered.
“How, then, call you the _air_?”
“I don’t know any name for it,” Sylvie replied, as she rose from the
instrument.
“But this is marvellous!” exclaimed the Count, following the child, and
addressing himself to me, as if I were the proprietor of this musical
prodigy, and so _must_ know the origin of her music. “You have heard her
play this, sooner—I would say ‘before this occasion’? How call you the
air?”
I shook my head; but was saved from more questions by Lady Muriel, who
came up to petition the Count for a song.
The Count spread out his hands apologetically, and ducked his head.
“But, Milady, I have already respected—I would say prospected—all your
songs; and there shall be none fitted to my voice! They are not for
basso voices!”
“Wo’n’t you look at them again?” Lady Muriel implored.
“Let’s help him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “Let’s get him—_you_ know!”
Sylvie nodded. “Shall _we_ look for a song for you?” she said sweetly to
the Count.
“Mais _oui_!” the little man exclaimed.
“Of course we may!” said Bruno, while, each taking a hand of the
delighted Count, they led him to the music-stand.
“There is still hope!” said Lady Muriel over her shoulder, as she
followed them.
I turned to ‘Mein Herr,’ hoping to resume our interrupted conversation.
“You were remarking——” I began: but at this moment Sylvie came to call
Bruno, who had returned to my side, looking unusually serious. “_Do_
come, Bruno!” she entreated. “You know we’ve nearly found it!” Then, in
a whisper, “The locket’s in my _hand_, now. I couldn’t get it out while
they were looking!”
But Bruno drew back. “The man called me names,” he said with dignity.
“What names?” I enquired with some curiosity.
“I asked him,” said Bruno, “which sort of song he liked. And he said
‘_A_ song of _a_ man, not of _a_ lady.’ And I said ‘Shall Sylvie and me
find you the song of Mister Tottles?’ And he said ‘Wait, eel!’ And I’m
_not_ an eel, oo know!”
“I’m _sure_ he didn’t mean it!” Sylvie said earnestly. “It’s something
French—you know he ca’n’t talk English so well as——”
Bruno relented visibly. “Course he knows no better, if he’s Flench!
Flenchmen _never_ can speak English so goodly as _us_!” And Sylvie led
him away, a willing captive.
“Nice children!” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and rubbing
them carefully. Then he put them on again, and watched with an approving
smile, while the children tossed over the heap of music, and we just
caught Sylvie’s reproving words, “We’re _not_ making hay, Bruno!”
“This has been a long interruption to our conversation,” I said. “Pray
let us go on!”
“Willingly!” replied the gentle old man.
“I was much interested in what you——” He paused a moment, and passed his
hand uneasily across his brow. “One forgets,” he murmured. “What was I
saying? Oh! Something you were to tell me. Yes. Which of your teachers
do you value the most highly, those whose words are easily understood,
or those who puzzle you at every turn?”
I felt obliged to admit that we generally admired most the teachers we
couldn’t quite understand.
“Just so,” said Mein Herr. “That’s the way it begins. Well, _we_ were at
that stage some eighty years ago—or was it ninety? Our favourite teacher
got more obscure every year; and every year we admired him more—just as
_your_ Art-fanciers call _mist_ the fairest feature in a landscape, and
admire a view with frantic delight when they can see nothing! Now I’ll
tell you how it ended. It was Moral Philosophy that our idol lectured
on. Well, his pupils couldn’t make head or tail of it, but they got it
all by heart; and, when Examination-time came, they wrote it down; and
the Examiners said ‘Beautiful! What depth!’”
“But what good was it to the young men _afterwards_?”
“Why, don’t you see?” replied Mein Herr. “_They_ became teachers in
their turn, and _they_ said all these things over again; and _their_
pupils wrote it all down; and the Examiners accepted it; and nobody had
the ghost of an idea what it all meant!”
“And how did it end?”
“It ended this way. We woke up one fine day, and found there was no one
in the place that knew _anything_ about Moral Philosophy. So we
abolished it, teachers, classes, examiners, and all. And if any one
wanted to learn anything about it, he had to make it out for himself;
and after another twenty years or so there were several men that really
knew something about it! Now tell me another thing. How long do you
teach a youth before you examine him, in your Universities?”
I told him, three or four years.
“Just so, just what _we_ did!” he exclaimed. “We taught ’em a bit, and,
just as they were beginning to take it in, we took it all out again! We
pumped our wells dry before they were a quarter full—we stripped our
orchards while the apples were still in blossom—we applied the severe
logic of arithmetic to our chickens, while peacefully slumbering in
their shells! Doubtless it’s the early bird that picks up the worm—but
if the bird gets up so outrageously early that the worm is still deep
underground, what _then_ is its chance of a breakfast?”
Not much, I admitted.
“Now see how that works!” he went on eagerly. “If you want to pump your
wells so soon—and I suppose you tell me that is what you _must_ do?”
“We must,” I said. “In an over-crowded country like this, nothing but
Competitive Examinations——”
Mein Herr threw up his hands wildly. “What, _again_?” he cried. “I
thought it was dead, fifty years ago! Oh this Upas tree of Competitive
Examinations! Beneath whose deadly shade all the original genius, all
the exhaustive research, all the untiring life-long diligence by which
our fore-fathers have so advanced human knowledge, must slowly but
surely wither away, and give place to a system of Cookery, in which the
human mind is a sausage, and all we ask is, how much indigestible stuff
can be crammed into it!”
Always, after these bursts of eloquence, he seemed to forget himself for
a moment, and only to hold on to the thread of thought by some single
word. “Yes, _crammed_,” he repeated. “We went through all that stage of
the disease—had it bad, I warrant you! Of course, as the Examination was
all in all, we tried to put in just what was wanted—and the _great_
thing to aim at was, that the Candidate should know absolutely _nothing_
beyond the needs of the Examination! I don’t say it was ever _quite_
achieved: but one of my own pupils (pardon an old man’s egotism) came
very near it. After the Examination, he mentioned to me the few facts
which he knew but had _not_ been able to bring in, and I can assure you
they were trivial, Sir, absolutely trivial!”
I feebly expressed my surprise and delight.
The old man bowed, with a gratified smile, and proceeded. “At that time,
no one had hit on the much more rational plan of watching for the
individual scintillations of genius, and rewarding them as they
occurred. As it was, we made our unfortunate pupil into a Leyden-jar,
charged him up to the eyelids—then applied the knob of a Competitive
Examination, and drew off one magnificent spark, which very often
cracked the jar! What mattered _that_? We labeled it ‘First Class
Spark,’ and put it away on the shelf.”
“But the more rational system——?” I suggested.
“Ah, yes! _that_ came next. Instead of giving the whole reward of
learning in one lump, we used to pay for every good answer as it
occurred. How well I remember lecturing in those days, with a heap of
small coins at my elbow! It was ‘A _very_ good answer, Mr. Jones!’ (that
meant a shilling, mostly). ‘Bravo, Mr. Robinson!’ (that meant
half-a-crown). Now I’ll tell you how _that_ worked. Not one single fact
would any of them take in, without a fee! And when a clever boy came up
from school, he got paid more for learning than we got paid for teaching
him! Then came the wildest craze of all.”
“What, _another_ craze?” I said.
“It’s the last one,” said the old man. “I must have tired you out with
my long story. Each College wanted to get the clever boys: so we adopted
a system which we had heard was very popular in England: the Colleges
competed against each other, and the boys let themselves out to the
highest bidder! What geese we were! Why, they were bound to come to the
University _somehow_. We needn’t have paid ’em! And all our money went
in getting clever boys to come to one College rather than another! The
competition was so keen, that at last mere money-payments were not
enough. Any College, that wished to secure some specially clever young
man, had to waylay him at the Station, and hunt him through the streets.
The first who touched him was allowed to have him.”
“That hunting-down of the scholars, as they arrived, must have been a
curious business,” I said. “Could you give me some idea of what it was
like?”
“Willingly!” said the old man. “I will describe to you the very last
Hunt that took place, before that form of Sport (for it was actually
reckoned among the _Sports_ of the day: we called it ‘Cub-Hunting’) was
finally abandoned. I witnessed it myself, as I happened to be passing by
at the moment, and was what we called ‘in at the death.’ I can see it
now!” he went on in an excited tone, gazing into vacancy with those
large dreamy eyes of his. “It seems like yesterday; and yet it
happened——” He checked himself hastily, and the remaining words died
away into a whisper.
[Illustration: SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED]
“_How_ many years ago did you say?” I asked, much interested in the
prospect of at last learning _some_ definite fact in his history.
[Illustration: SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS]
“_Many_ years ago,” he replied. “The scene at the Railway-Station had
been (so they told me) one of wild excitement. Eight or nine Heads of
Colleges had assembled at the gates (no one was allowed inside), and the
Station-Master had drawn a line on the pavement, and insisted on their
all standing behind it. The gates were flung open! The young man darted
through them, and fled like lightning down the street, while the Heads
of Colleges actually _yelled_ with excitement on catching sight of him!
The Proctor gave the word, in the old statutory form, ‘_Semel!_ _Bis!_
_Ter!_ _Currite!_’, and the Hunt began! Oh, it was a fine sight, believe
me! At the first corner he dropped his Greek Lexicon: further on, his
railway-rug: then various small articles: then his umbrella: lastly,
what I suppose he prized most, his hand-bag: but the game was up: the
spherical Principal of—of——”
“Of _which_ College?” I said.
“—of _one_ of the Colleges,” he resumed, “had put into operation the
Theory—his own discovery—of Accelerated Velocity, and captured him just
opposite to where I stood. I shall never forget that wild breathless
struggle! But it was soon over. Once in those great bony hands, escape
was impossible!”
“May I ask why you speak of him as the ‘_spherical_’ Principal?” I said.
“The epithet referred to his _shape_, which was a perfect _sphere_. You
are aware that a bullet, another instance of a perfect sphere, when
falling in a perfectly straight line, moves with Accelerated Velocity?”
I bowed assent.
“Well, my spherical friend (as I am proud to call him) set himself to
investigate the _causes_ of this. He found them to be _three_. One; that
it is a perfect _sphere_. Two; that it moves in a _straight line_.
Three; that its direction is _not upwards_. When these three conditions
are fulfilled, you get Accelerated Velocity.”
“Hardly,” I said: “if you will excuse my differing from you. Suppose we
apply the theory to _horizontal_ motion. If a bullet is fired
_horizontally_, it——”
“—it does _not_ move in a _straight line_,” he quietly finished my
sentence for me.
“I yield the point,” I said. “What did your friend do next?”
“The next thing was to apply the theory, as you rightly suggest, to
_horizontal_ motion. But the moving body, ever tending to _fall_, needs
_constant support_, if it is to move in a true horizontal line. ‘What,
then,’ he asked himself, ‘will _give constant support to a moving
body_?’ And his answer was ‘_Human legs!_’ _That_ was the discovery that
immortalised his name!”
“His name being——?” I suggested.
“I had not mentioned it,” was the gentle reply of my most unsatisfactory
informant. “His next step was an obvious one. He took to a diet of
suet-dumplings, until his body had become a perfect sphere. _Then_ he
went out for his first experimental run—which nearly cost him his life!”
“How was _that_?”
“Well, you see, he had no idea of the _tremendous_ new Force in Nature
that he was calling into play. He began too fast. In a very few minutes
he found himself moving at a hundred miles an hour! And, if he had not
had the presence of mind to charge into the middle of a haystack (which
he scattered to the four winds) there can be no doubt that he would have
left the Planet he belonged to, and gone right away into Space!”
“And how came that to be the _last_ of the Cub-Hunts?” I enquired.
“Well, you see, it led to a rather scandalous dispute between two of the
Colleges. _Another_ Principal had laid his hand on the young man, so
nearly at the same moment as the _spherical_ one, that there was no
knowing which had touched him first. The dispute got into print, and did
us no credit, and, in short, Cub-Hunts came to an end. Now I’ll tell you
what cured us of that wild craze of ours, the bidding against each
other, for the clever scholars, just as if they were articles to be sold
by auction! Just when the craze had reached its highest point, and when
one of the Colleges had actually advertised a Scholarship of one
thousand pounds _per annum_, one of our tourists brought us the
manuscript of an old African legend—I happen to have a copy of it in my
pocket. Shall I translate it for you?”
“Pray go on,” I said, though I felt I was getting _very_ sleepy.