Dear Sir,—The young lady is here, and I said you wished to come. She has no objection, and will stay to see you.Clara Benette.
Dear Sir,—The young lady is here, and I said you wished to come. She has no objection, and will stay to see you.
Clara Benette.
"How like her!" I thought; and then, with an unpardonable impulse,—I don't defend myself in the least,—I flew out of the house as if my shoes had been made of satin. I left the note open upon the table (it was in the empty breakfast-room where I had been lolling), meaning thereby to save my credit,—like a simpleton as I was, for it contained not one word of explanation.
A carriage was at the door of that corner house in St. Anthony's Lane,—a dark-green carriage; very handsome, very plain, with a pair of beautiful horses: the coachman, evidently tired of waiting, was just going to turn their heads.
When I got into the room upstairs, or rather while yet upon the stairs, I smelt some refined sort of foreign scent I had once before met with in my experience; namely, when my mother had received a present of an Indian shawl in an Indian box, from an uncle of hers who had gone out to India and laid his bones there. When Ireally entered, Miss Lawrence, in a chair by the table, was examining some fresh specimens of Miss Benette's work outspread upon the crimson as before. I abruptly wished Clara good-day, and immediately her visitor held out her hand to me. This lady made me feel queer by daylight: I could not realize, scarcely recognize, her. She looked not so brilliant, and now I found that she was slightly sallow; her countenance might have been called heavy, from its peculiar style. Still, I admired her eyes, though I discerned no more fireflies in her glance. She was dressed in a great shawl,—red, I think it was,—with a black bonnet and feather; and her gloves were so loose, they seemed as if they would fall off. She had an air of even more fashionable ease than ever, and I, not knowing that itwasfashionable ease, felt so abashed under its influence that I could not hold up my head.
She went on talking about the work. I found she wished to purchase some; but Clara would not part with any of that which was upon the table, because it was for the Quakers in Albemarle Square. But she was very willing to work specially for Miss Lawrence. I thought I had never seen Clara so calm,—I wondered she could be so calm; at once she seemed to me like myself,—a child, so awfully grown-up did Miss Lawrence appear. I beheld, too, that the latter lady glanced often stealthily round and round the room, and I did not like her the better for it. I thought she was curious, and very fine besides; so the idea of asking her about Milans-André passed out of my brain completely.
She had, as I said, been discussing the work. She gave orders for embroidered handkerchiefs, and was very particular about the flowers to be worked upon them; and she gave orders for a muslin apron, to be surrounded with vandykes, and to have vandyked pockets,—fora toilet cushion and veil; and then she said: "Will you have the goodness to send them to the Priory when they are finished? My friends live there, and will send them on to me. I wish to pay for them now,"—and she laid a purse upon the table.
"I think there is too much gold here, ma'am," said Clara, innocently.
"I know precisely the cost of work, Miss Benette: such work as yours is, besides, priceless. Recollect, you find my materials. That is sufficient, if you please." And to my astonishment, and rather dread, she turned full upon me as I was standing at the table.
"You wish to know what Milans-André is like, Master Charles Auchester,—for that is your name, I find. Well, thus much: he is not like you, and he is not like Santonio, nor like the unknown conductor, nor like your favorite, Mr. Davy. He is narrow at the shoulders, with long arms, small white hands, and a handsome face,—rather too large for his body. He plays wonderfully, and fills a large theatre with one pianoforte. He is very amiable, but not kind; and very famous, but not beloved."
"What an extraordinary description!" I thought; and I involuntarily added: "I thought he was your master."
She seemed touched, and answered generously: "I am afraid you think me ungrateful, but I owe nothing to him. Ah! you owe far more to your master, Mr. Davy."
I was pleased, and replied, "Oh! I know that; but I should like to hear Milans-André play."
"You will be sure to hear him. He will, ere long, become common, and play everywhere. But if I had a piano here, I could show you exactly how he plays, and could play you a piece of his music."
I thought it certainly a strange mistake in punctilio for Miss Lawrence to refer to the want of a piano in that room; but I little knew her. She paused, too, as she said it, and looked at Clara. Clara did not blush, nor did her sweet face change.
"I am very sorry that I have no piano; I am to have one some day when I grow rich. But Mr. Davy is kind enough to teach me at his house, and I sing to his piano there. I wish I had one, though, that you might play, Miss Lawrence."
The fire-flies all at once sparkled, almost dazzled, from the eyes of Miss Lawrence: a sudden glow, which was less color than light, beamed all over her face. I could tell she was enchanted about something or other,—at least she looked so.
"Oh! Miss Benette," she answered, in a genial tone, "you are very, very rich with such a voice as yours, and such power to make it perfect as you possess."
Clara smiled. "Thank you for saying so." Miss Lawrence had risen to go, yet she still detained herself, as having something left to do or say.
"I should like to see you both again, and to hear you. You, Miss Benette, I am sure of; but I also expect to discover something very wonderful about Master Charles Auchester. You are to be a singer, of course?" she quickly said to me.
"I hope I shall be a player, if I am to be anything."
"What, another Santonio, or another Milans-André?"
"Oh! neither; but I must learn the violin."
"Oh! is that it? Have you begun, and how long?"
"Not yet,—I have no violin; but I mean to begin very soon."
"Only determine, and you will. Farewell!"
She had passed out, leaving a purse upon the table,containing fifty guineas. Miss Benette opened it, turned out the coins one by one, and, full of trouble, said, "Oh! whatever shall I do? I shall be so unhappy to keep it."
"But that is wrong, Miss Benette, because you deserve it. She is quite right."
"No, but I will keep it, because she is generous, and I can see how she loves to give."
Laura was at the next class. I had almost forgotten her until I saw her eyes. I felt quite wicked when I perceived how thin and transparent the child had grown,—wicked to have thought so little of her in suffering, while I had been enjoying myself. I cannot give the least idea how large her eyes looked,—they quite frightened me. I was not used to see persons just out of illness. Her hair, too, was cut much shorter, and, altogether, I did not admire her so much. I felt myself again wicked for this very reason, and was quite unhappy about it. She gave me a nod. Her cheeks were quite pale, and usually they were very pink: this also affected me deeply. Clara appeared to counter-charm me, and I saw no other immediately.
"Ah, Laura, dear! you are looking quite nice again, so pretty," said this sweet girl as she took her seat; and then she stooped down and kissed the little dancer.
I found myself rather in the way; for to Clara it seemed quite natural to scatter happiness with her very looks. She turned to me, after whispering with Laura:
"She wants to thank you for the flowers, but she does not like to speak to you."
I was positively ashamed, and, to hide my confusion, said to Laura, "Do you like violets?"
"Yes, but I like large flowers better. I like red roses and blue cornflowers."
I did not care for cornflowers myself, except among the corn; and I thought it very likely Laura took thepoppies for roses; still, I did not set her right,—it was too much trouble. But if I had known I should never see her again,—I mean, see her as she then was,—I should have taken more care to do her kindness. Is it not ever so? Clara entirely engaged me; in fact, I was getting quite usednotto do without her. How well I remember that evening! We sang a service. Davy had written several very simple ones, and I longed to perform them in public,—that is to say, in the singing gallery of our church. But I might as well have aspired to sing them up in heaven, so utterly would they have been spurned as innovatory.
It was this evening I felt for the first time what I suppose all boys feel at one time or another,—that they cannot remain always just as they are. It was no satiety, it was no disappointed hope, nor any vague desire. It was purely a conviction that some change was awaiting me. I suppose, in fact, it was a presentiment. The voices of our choir seemed thin and far away; the pale cheek of Lenhart Davy seemed stamped with unearthly lustre; the room and roof were wider, higher; the evening colors, clustered in the shape of windows, wooed to that distant sky. I was agitated, ecstatic. I could not sing; and when I listened, I was bewildered in more than usual excitement. Snatches of hymns and ancient psalms, morsels of the Bible, lullabies and bells, speeches of no significance, uttered years and, as it seemed, centuries ago, floated into my brain and through it, despite the present, and made there a murmurous clamor, like the din of a mighty city wafted to the ear of one who stands on a commanding hill. I mention this to prove that presentiment is not a fatuity, but something mysterious in its actuality,—like love, like joy; perhaps a passion ofmemory, that anticipates its treasures and delightsto be.
"What beautiful words!" said Clara, in a whisper that seemed to have more sweetness than other whispers, just as some shadows have more symmetry than other shadows. She meant, "Unto whom I sware in my wrath," and the rest.
"Yes," I answered, "I like those words, all of them, and the way they are put. I always liked them when I was a little boy."
It was very hard to Miss Benette not to reply here, I could tell, she so entirely agreed with me; but Davy was recalling our attention. When the class was over, she resumed,—
"I know exactly what you mean; for I used to feel it at the old church in London, where I went with Mr. Davy's aunt, and could not see above the pew, it was so high."
"Did you like her, Miss Benette? Is she like him?"
"No, not much. She is a good deal stricter, but she is exceedingly good; taller than he is, with much darker eyes. She taught me so much, and was so kind to me, that I only wonder I did not love her a great deal more."
I felt rather aghast, for, to tell the truth, I only wonder when I love,—never when I am indifferent, as to most persons. As we were going out, I asked leave to come and practise on the morrow,—I felt Imustcome. I wonder what I should have done had she refused me! "Certainly, Master Auchester." But she was looking after Laura. "Let me pin up that shawl, dear, and tie my veil upon your bonnet,—mind you wear it down in the street." The child certainly seemed to have put on her clothes in a dream, for her greatshawl trailed a yard behind her on the floor, and did not cover her shoulders at all. Her bonnet-strings, now very disorderly indeed, were entangled in a knot, which Clara patiently endeavored to divide. I waited as long as I dared, but Davy was staying for me I knew, and at last he waved his hand. I could no longer avoid seeing him, and said to Clara, "Good-night." She smiled, but did not rise; she was kneeling before Laura. "Good-night, Miss Lemark."
She only looked up. The large eyes seemed like the drops of rain after a drenching shower within the chalice of some wood anemone,—too heavy for the fragile face in which they were set, and from which they gazed as if unconscious of gazing. I thought to myself, as I went out, she will die, I suppose; but I did not tell Davy so, because of his reply when I had first spoken of Laura's illness. I felt very dispirited though, and shrank from the notion, though it still obtruded itself. Davy was very quiet. I recollect it to have been a white foggy night, and more keen than cold: perhaps that was the reason, as he was never strong in health. When I came to our door—how well I remember it!—I pulled him in upon the mat before he well knew what I was about.
"Oh! Master Charles," exclaimed Margareth, who was exclusive porteress in our select establishment, "your brother has brought you a parcel,—a present, no doubt."
"Oh! my goodness; where is Fred?"
"They are all in the parlor. But, sir, won't you walk in?"
"I beg your pardon," said Davy, absently. "Oh! no; I am going back. Good-night, Charles."
"Oh, dear, Mr. Davy, do stay and see my present, please!"
Davy did not answer here, for the parlor door opened, and my mother appeared, benign and hospitable.
"Come in, come in!" she said, extending her hand, and I at least was in before she was out of the parlor. Fred was there, and Fred's wife—a pretty black-haired little matron, full of trivialities and full of sympathy with Lydia—was sitting by that respected sister at a little table. I ran to shake hands with Mrs. Fred, and knocked over the table. Alas! they were making bead purses, and for a few moments there was a restoration of chaos among their elements. Clo came from a dark corner, where she was wide awake over Dean Prideaux, and my mother had raised her hands in some dismay, when I was caught up by Fred and lifted high into the air.
"Well, and what do I hear," etc.
"Oh! Fred, where is my present?"
"Present, indeed! Such as it is, it lies out there.Nobodyleft it at the office, so Vincent tells me; but I found it there among the packages, and was strongly inclined to consider it a mistake altogether. Certainly 'Charles Auchester, Esq.,' was not 'known there;' but I smelt plum-cake, and that decided me to have it opened here."
I rushed to the chair behind the sofa, while the rest—except Millicent and Mr. Davy, who were addressing each other in the low voice which is the test of all human proprieties—were scolding in various styles. The fracas was no more to me than the jingling of the maternal keys. I found a large oblong parcel rolled in the thickest of brown papers, and tied with the thickest of strings round and round again so firmly that it was, or appeared to be, hopeless to open it unless I gnawed that cord.
"Oh! Lydia, lend me your scissors."
"For shame, Charles!" pronounced Clo. "How often have I bidden you never to waste a piece of string!"
She absolutely began upon those knots with her fingers. My own trembled so violently that they were useless. Meanwhile, for she was about ten minutes engaged in the neat operation,—I scanned the address. It was, as Fred had mentioned to me, as an adult and as an esquire, and the writing was bold, black, and backward. It seemed to have come a long way, and smelt of travelling; also, when the paper was at length unfolded, it smelt of tow, and something oblong was muffled in the tow.
"A box!" observed sapient Clotilda. I tore the tow out in handfuls. "Don't strew it upon the carpet, oh, my dearest Charles!"
Clo, I defy you! It was a box truly, but what sort of a box? It had a lid and a handle. It was also fastened with little hooks of brass. It was open, I don't know how. There it lay,—there lay a real violin in the velvet lining of its varnished case!
No, I could not bear it; it was of no use to try. I did not touch it, nor examine it. I flew away upstairs. I shut myself into the first room I came to, which happened to be Lydia's; but I did not care. I rushed up to the window and pressed my face against the cold glass. I sobbed; my head beat like a heart in my brain; I wept rivers. I don't suppose the same thing ever happened to any one else, therefore none can sympathize. It was mystery, it was passion, it was infinitude; it was to a soul like mine a romance so deep that it has never needed other. My violin was mine, and I was it, and the beauty of my romance was, intruth, an ideal charmer; for be it remembered that I knew no more how to handle it than I should have known how to conduct at the festival.
The first restoring fact I experienced was the thin yet rich vibration of that very violin. I heard its voice, somebody was trying it,—Davy, no doubt; and that marvellous quality of tone which I name a double oneness—resulting, no doubt, from the so often treated harmonics—reached and pierced me up the staircase and through the closed door. I could not endure to go down, and presently when I had begun to feel rather ghostly—for it was dead dark—I heard somebody come up and grope first here, then there, overhead and about, to find me. But I would not be found until all the places had been searched where I did not happen to be hidden. Then the person came to my door. It was Millicent; she drew me into the passage.
"Oh! I can't go down."
"Darling do, for my sake. They are all so pleased. Mr. Davy has been playing, and he says it is a real Amati."
"But don't let Fred touch it, please, Millicent!" For I had a vague idea it would not like to be touched by Fred.
"Why, no onecantouch it but Mr. Davy,—not evenyou, Charles. Do come downstairs now and look at it."
I went. Mr. Davy was holding it yet, but the instant I entered he advanced and placed it between my arms. I embraced it, much as young ladies embrace their first wax dolls, but with emotions as sweet, as deep, as mystical as those of the youth who first presses to his soul the breathing presence of his earliest love. I saw then that this violin was a tiny thing,—a very fairy of a fiddle; it was certainly not new, but I did not know how veryold it was, and should not have been the least aware how valuable it was, and of what a precious costliness, but for Davy's observation, "Take care of it, Charles, and it will make you all you wish to be. I rather suspect Santonio will envy you its possession when he has tried it."
"But is he to try it, then, Mr. Davy?"
"Your mother has given me leave to ask him, if I see him; but I fear he has already returned to London." Davy glanced here at my mother with a peculiar expression, and resumed, "I am going to write to him, at all events, about another subject, or rather upon the same subject."
"Oh, Mr. Davy, I will talk to my little boy myself."
"Certainly, madam; I will not anticipate you."
"Charles dear," said Clo, "you must have your supper now."
It appeared to me that I had already had it; but I restored my doll to its cradle in silence, and ate unconsciously. Fred's presence at the board stimulated his lady and Lydia to extreme festivity, and they laughed the whole time; but Millicent was pale and Davy quiet, and he departed as soon as he possibly might. But a smile of sweetness all his own, and of significance sweeter than sweetness, brightened his frank adieu for me into the day-spring of my decided destiny.
The next morning my mother redeemed her promise. It was directly after breakfast when she had placed herself in the chair at the parlor window. She made no allusion to the evening before until she completed this arrangement of hers, and then she looked so serious, as I stood before her, that I fully expected something I should not like.
"Charles," she said, "you are very dear to me, and perhaps you have given me more care than all my children, though you are the youngest. I have often wondered what you would be or become as a member of society, and it was the last of all my thoughts for you that you must leave me to be educated. But if you are to be a musician, you must be taken from me soon, or you will never grow into what we should both of us desire,—a first-rate artist. I could not wish you to be anything less than first rate, and now you are very backward."
"Am I to go to London then, mother?" I shook in every limb.
"I believe a first-rate musical education for you in London would be beyond my means. It is upon this subject your friend Mr. Davy is to be so good as to write to Santonio, who can tell us all about Germany, where higher advantages can be obtained more easily than anywhere in England. But, Charles, you will have to give up a great deal if you go, and learn to do everythingfor yourself. If you are ill, you will have to do without nursing and petting as you would have here; and if you are unhappy, you must not complain away from home. Also you must work hard, or you will lose your free self-approval, and be miserable at the end. I should be afraid to let you go if I did not know you are musical enough to do your duty by music, and loving enough to do your duty by your mother; also, that you are a true boy, and will not take to false persons. But it is hard to part with you, my child; and indeed, we need not think of that just yet."
I did though, I am ashamed to say; and I wanted to set off on the next day. I knew this to be impossible, and the fact that consoled me was the very one of my unstrung ignorance; for I had a vague impression that Davy would tune me up before I left home. I could not see him that morning. My excitement was intense; I could not even cut a caper, for I had to do my lessons, and Clo always behaved about my lessons as if they were to go on forever, and I was by no means to grow any older. She was especially stationary on this morning, and I had nothing for it but to apply very hard indeed. My copy was more crabbed than ever; but while she commented so gravely thereupon, I thought of what Santonio had said about my arm and hand. I was not vain,—I have not a tincture of vanity all through me,—but I was very proud, and also most demurely humble.
At dinner Millicent talked to me of my prospects; but I pretended not to admit them in all their magnificence: the prophetic longing was so painful to me that I dared not irritate it. So she rallied me in vain, and I ate a great deal of rice pudding to simulate occupation. Dinner over, they all retired to their rooms,—I to myviolin in a corner of the parlor. I hung over it as it lay in its case, I fed upon it in spirit; but I did not take it out, I was afraid of any one coming in. At last I spread my pocket-handkerchief upon the case, and sitting down upon it, went to sleep in scarcely conscious possession. I did not dream anything particular, though I suppose I ought to have done so, and it had been better for these unilluminated pages; but when I awoke it was late,—that is, late for my engagement with Miss Benette.
I ran all the way; and as I reached my resting-place, it occurred to me that I should have to tell her I was going to Germany. How glad she would be, and yet a little sorry; for I had an idea she liked me, or I should never have gone near her. Vaulting into the passage, I heard strange sounds—singing, but not only singing. More and more wonders, I thought, and I dashed upstairs. The sounds ceased when I knocked at the door, which Clara came to open. I gazed in first, before I even noticed her, and beheld in the centre of the room a small polished pianoforte. I flew in and up to it, and breathlessly surveyed it.
"Miss Benette, where did that come from? I thought you were not to have a pianoforte for ever so long."
She came to me, and replied with her steady, sweet voice a little agitated,—
"Oh! Master Auchester, I wish you could tell me who it came from, that I might give that person my heart quite full of thanks. I can only believe it comes from some one who loves music more than all things,—some one rich, whom music has made richer than could all money. It is such a sweet, darling, beautiful thing to come to me! Such a precious glory to make my heart so bright!"
The tears filled her eyes, and looking at her, I perceivedthat she had lately wept; the veins of harebell-blue seemed to quiver round the lids.
"Oh, Miss Benette! I had a violin sent to me too, and I thought it was from Mr. Davy; but now I feel quite sure it was from that lady."
Clara could scarcely speak,—I had never seen her so overcome; but she presently answered,—
"I believe it was the young lady. I hope so, because I should like her to be made happy by remembering we have both got through her what we wanted more than anything in the world. She would not like to be thanked, though; so we ought not to grieve that we cannot express our gratitude."
"I should like to know really, though, because it seems so strange she should recollectme."
"Oh, Master Auchester, no! Any one can see the music in your face who has the music in his heart. Besides, she saw you at the festival, and how anxious you were to serve the great gentleman."
"Now, Miss Benette, I am to tell you something."
"How good! Do go on."
I laid my arm on the piano, but scarcely knew how to begin.
"What is it to do, then?" asked Clara, winningly.
"I am going really to be a musician, Miss Benette; I am going to Germany."
She did not reply at first; but when I looked up, it was as though she had not wept, so bright she beamed.
"That's all right, I knew you would. Oh! if she knew how much good she had done, how happy she would be! How happy she will be when she goes to a concert some day, in some year to come, and sees you stand up, and hears you praise music in the voice it loves best!"
"Do you think so? Do you think it is the best voice of music?"
"Because it is like the voice of a single soul, I do. But Mr. Davy says we cannot know the power of an orchestra of souls."
"Ican."
"Oh! I beg your pardon! I forgot."
"But I don't think that I remember well; for whenever I try to think of it, I seem only to see his face, and hear his voice speaking to me, saying, 'Above all, the little ones!'"
"How pretty it was! You will be sure to see him in Germany, and then you can ask him whether he wrote the 'Tone-Wreath.'"
Oh, how I laughed again!
"What sort of place shall I go to, should you think?"
"I don't know any place really, Master Auchester. I can't tell what places they have to learn at, upon the Continent. I know no places besides this house, and Mr. Davy's, and the class, and church, and Miss Lenhart's house in London."
"Are you not very dull?"
Alas for the excitable nature of my own temperament! I was sure I should be dull in her place, though I had never felt it until my violin came upon me, stealthy and stirring as first love. She looked at me with serene wonder.
"I don't know what 'dull' means. I do not want anything I have not got, because I shall have everything I want,—some day, I mean; and I would rather not have all at once."
I did not think anything could be wanting to her, indeed, in loveliness or aspiration, for my religious belief was in both for her; still I fancied it impossible sheshould not sometimes feel impatient, and especially as those blue shadows I have mentioned had softened the sweetness of her eyes, and the sensation of tears stole over me as I gazed upon her.
"We shall not practise much, I am afraid, Master Auchester, for I want to talk, and I am so silly that when I sing, I begin to cry."
"For pleasure, I suppose. I always do."
"Not all for pleasure. I am vexed, and I do not love myself for being vexed. Laura is going to Paris, Master Auchester, to study under a certain master there. Her papa is going too, and that woman I do not like. She is unhappy to leave me, but they have filled her head with pictures, and she is wild for the big theatres. She came to see me this morning, and I talked to her a long time. It was that made me cry."
"Why, particularly?"
"Because I told her so many things about the sort of people she will see, and how to know what is beautiful in people who are not wise. She promised to come and live with me when I have been to Italy, and become a singer; but till then, I shall, perhaps, never meet her, for our ways are not the same. She looked with her clear eyes right through me, to see if I was grave; and if she only finds her art is fair, I shall not be afraid for her."
"But is she not ill? I never saw anybody look so strange."
"That is because her hair is shorter. You do not like her, Master Auchester?"
I shook my shoulders. "No; not a great deal."
"You will try, please. She will be an artist."
"But don't you consider,—of course I don't know,—but don't you consider dancing the lowest art?"
"Oh, Master Auchester! all the arts help each other, and are all in themselves so pure that we cannot say one is purer than the other. Besides, was it not in the dream of that Jew, in the Bible, that the angels descended as well as ascended?"
"You are like Martin Luther."
"Why so?"
"Clo—that is my clever sister—told me what he said about the arts and religion."
"Oh, Mr. Davy tells that story."
"Miss Benette, you are very naughty! You seem to know everything that everybody says."
"No; it is because I see so few people that I remember all they say."
"Are you not atallfonder of music than of dancing? Oh, Miss Benette!"
She laughed heartily, showing one or two of her twinkling teeth.
"I am fonder of music than of anything that lives or is, or rather I am not fond of it at all; but it is my life, though I am only a young child in that life at present. But I am rather fond of dancing, I must confess."
"I think it is charming; and I can dance very well, particularly on the top of a wall. But I do not care about it, you know."
"You mean, it is not enough for you to make you either glad or sorry. But be thankful that it is enough for some people."
"All things make me glad, and sorry too, I think, going away now. When I come back—"
"I shall be gone," said Clara.
"I shall be a man—"
"And I an old woman—"
"For shame, Miss Benette! you will never grow old, I believe."
"Oh, yes, I shall; but I do not mind, it will be like a summer to grow old."
"I am sure it will!" I cried, with an enthusiasm that seemed to surprise her, so unconscious was she ever of any effect she had.
"But I shall grow old too; and there is not so very much difference between us. So then I shall seem your age; and, Miss Benette, when I do grow up, will you be my friend?"
"Always, Master Auchester, if you still wish it. And in my heart I do believe that friends are friends forever."
The sweet smile she gave me, the sweeter words she spoke, were sufficient to assure me I should not be forgotten; and it was all I wished, for then my heart was fixed upon my future.
"But you will not be going to-morrow, I suppose?"
"No, I wish I were."
"So do I."
"Thank you," said I, rather disconcerted; "I shall go very soon, I suppose."
"It will not be long, I daresay," she answered, with another sweetest smile; and I felt it to be her kind wish for me, and was consoled. And when I left her she was standing quietly by her piano; nor did she raise her eyes to follow me to the door.
By one of those curious chances that befall some people more than others, I had a cold the next class-night. I was in an extremity of passion to be kept at home,—that is to say, I rolled in my stifling bed with the sulks pressing heavily on my heart, and the headache upon my forehead. Millicent sat by me, andlaughingly assured me I should soon be quite well again; I solemnly averred I should never be well, should never get up, should never see Davy any more, never go to Germany. But I went to sleep after all; for Davy, with his usual philanthropy, came all the way up to the house to inquire for me after the class, and his voice aroused and soothed me together. I may say that such a cold was a godsend just then, as it prevented my having to do any lessons. The next day, being idle, I heard nothing of Davy; neither the next. I thought it very odd; but on the third morning I was permitted to go out, as it was very clear and bright. The smoke looked beautiful, almost like another kind of flame, as it swelled skywards, and I met Davy quite glowing with exercise.
"What a day for December!" said he, and cheerily held up a letter.
"Oh, Mr. Davy!" I cried; but he would not suffer me even to read the superscription.
"First for your mother. Will you turn back and walk home with me?"
"I must not, sir; I am to walk to the turnpike and back."
"Away, then! and I am very glad to hear it."
To do myself justice, I did not even run. I could, indeed, for all my impatient hope, scarcely help feeling there is no such blessing as pure fresh air that fans a brow whose fever has lately faded. I came at length to the toll-gate, and returned, braced for any adventure, to the door of my own home. I flew into the parlor; my mother and Davy were alone. My mother was wiping off a tear or two, and he seemed smiling on purpose.
"Oh, mother!" I exclaimed, running up to her, "please don't cry."
"My dear Charles, you are a silly little boy. After all, what will you do in Germany?"
She lifted me upon her lap. Davy walked up to the book-case.
"I find, Charles, that you must go immediately,—and, indeed, it will be best if you travel with Mr. Santonio. And how could I send you alone, with such an opportunity to be taken care of! Mr. Davy, will you have the kindness to read that letter to my little boy?"
Davy, thus admonished, gathered up the letter now lying open upon the table, and began to read it quite in his class voice, as if we two had been an imposing audience.
Dear Madam,—Although I have not had the pleasure of an introduction to you, I think the certificate of my cognizance by my friend Davy will be sufficient to induce you to allow me to take charge of your son at the end of this week, if he can then be ready, as I must leave England then, and return to Paris by the middle of February. Between this journey and that time I shall be in Germany to attend the examinations of the Cecilia School at Lorbeerstadt.[12]The Cecilia School now is exactly the place for your son, though he is six months too young to be admitted. At the same time, if he is to be admitted at all, he should at once be placed under direct training, and there are out-professors who undertake precisely this responsibility. My own experience proves that anything is better than beginning too late, or beginning too soon to work alone. I have made every inquiry which could be a proviso with you.
Dear Madam,—Although I have not had the pleasure of an introduction to you, I think the certificate of my cognizance by my friend Davy will be sufficient to induce you to allow me to take charge of your son at the end of this week, if he can then be ready, as I must leave England then, and return to Paris by the middle of February. Between this journey and that time I shall be in Germany to attend the examinations of the Cecilia School at Lorbeerstadt.[12]The Cecilia School now is exactly the place for your son, though he is six months too young to be admitted. At the same time, if he is to be admitted at all, he should at once be placed under direct training, and there are out-professors who undertake precisely this responsibility. My own experience proves that anything is better than beginning too late, or beginning too soon to work alone. I have made every inquiry which could be a proviso with you.
"Then here follows what would scarcely interest you," said Davy, breaking off.
"Your friend is quite right, Charles. Now can you say you are sure I may put faith in you?"
"What do you mean, mother? If you mean that I am to practise,indeedI will; I never want to do anything else, and I won't have any money to spend."
Davy came up to us and smiled: "I really think he is safe. You will let him come to me one evening, dear madam?"
"Perhaps you can come to us. I really do not think we can spare him; we have so much to do in the way of preparation."
It was an admirable providence that my whole time was, from morning to night, taken up with my family. My sisters, assisted by Margareth, made me a dozen shirts, and hemmed for me three dozen handkerchiefs. I was being measured or fitted all day, and all the evening was running up and down stairs with the completed items. Oh! if you had seen my boxes you would have said that I ought to be very good to be so cared for, and very beautiful besides; yet I was neither, and was sorely longing to be away,—such kindness pained me more than it pleased. I had a little jointed bed, which you would not have believedwasa bed until it was set up. My mother admonished me if I found my bed comfortable to keep that in my box; but she had some experience of German beds, and English ones too, under certain circumstances. I had a gridiron, and a coffee-pot, a spirit-lamp, and a case containing one knife and fork, one plate, one spoon. I had everything I could possibly want, and felt dreadfully bewildered. Clo was marking my stockings one morning when Davy came in; he gave me one of his little brown boxes, and in the box was a single cup and saucer of that glowing, delicate china. When he pulled it out of his pocket Ilittle knew what it was, and when I found out, how I cried!
"I have, indeed, brought you a small remembrance, Charles; but I am a small man, and you are a small boy, and I understand you are to have a very small establishment."
He said this cheerily, but I could not laugh; he put his kind arm round me, and I only wept the more. Clo was all the time quite seriously, as I have said, tracing ineffaceably my initials in German text, with crimson cotton,—none of your delible inks,—and Davy pretended to be very much interested in them.
"What! all those stockings, Charles?"
"Yes, sir: you see we have provided for summer and winter," responded Clo, as seriously as I have mentioned. "He will not want any till we see him again, for he is to pay us a visit, if God spares him, next Christmas."
Davy sighed, and kissed my forehead; I clung to him. "Shall I see you again, Mr. Davy?"
"I have come to ask your mother whether I may take you to London; it is precisely what I came for, and I have a little plan."
Davy had actually an engagement in London, or feigned to have one,—I have never been able to discover whether it was a fact or a fiction; and he proposed to my mother that I should sleep with him at his aunt's house one night before I was deposited at the hotel where Santonio rested, and to which he had advised I should be brought.
I was in fits of delight at the idea of Davy's company; yet, after all, I did not have much of that, for he travelled to London on the top of the coach, and I was an inside passenger at my mother's request.
Then comes a sleep of memory, not unaccompaniedby dreams,—a dream of being hurled into a corner by a lady, and of jamming myself so that I could not stir hand or foot between her and the window; a dream of desperate efforts to extricate myself; a dream of sudden respite, cold air, and high stars beyond and above the houses, a cracked horn, a flashing lantern; a dream of dark in a hackney-coach, and of stopping in a stilly street before a many-windowed mansion, as it seemed to me. Then I am aware to this hour of a dense headache, and bones almost knotted together, till there arrives the worst nightmare reality can breed,—the smell of toast, muffins, and tea; the feeling of a knife and fork you cannot manage for sleepfulness; and the utter depression of your quicksilver.
I could not even look at Miss Lenhart; but I heard that her voice was going on all the time, and felt that she looked at me now and then. I was conveyed into bed by Davy without any exercise on my own part, and I slumbered in that sleep which absorbs all time, till very bright day. Then I awoke and found myself alone, though Davy had left a neat impression in the great soft bed. Presently I heard his steps, and his fingers on the lock. He brought my breakfast in his own hand, and while I forced myself to partake of it, he told me he should carry me to Santonio at two o'clock, the steamboat leaving London Bridge at six the same evening. And at two o'clock we arrived at the hotel. In a lofty apartment sat Santonio near a table laid for dinner.
I beheld my boxes in one corner, and my violin-case strapped to the largest; but all Santonio's luggage consisted of that case of his which had been wrapped up warm in baize, and one portmanteau. He arose and welcomed us with a smile most amiable; and having shaken hands with Davy, took hold of both mine and held them,while still rallying in a few words about our punctuality. Then he rang for dinner, and I made stupendous efforts not to be a baby, which I should not have been sorry to find myself at that instant. The two masters talked together without noticing me, and presently I recovered; but only to be put upon the sofa, which was soft as a powder-puff, and told to go to sleep. I made magnificent determinations to keep awake, but in vain; and it was just as well I could not, though I did not think so when I awoke. For just then starting and sitting up, I beheld a lamp upon the table, and heard Santonio's voice in the entry, haranguing a waiter about a coach. But looking round and round into every corner I saw no Davy, and I cannot describe how I felt when I found he had kissed me asleep, and gone away altogether. As Santonio re-entered, the sweet cordiality with which he tempered his address to me was more painful than the roughest demeanor would have been just then, thrilling as I was with the sympathy I had never drawn except from Davy's heart, and which I had never lost since I had known him. It was as if my soul were suddenly unclad, and left to writhe naked in a sunless atmosphere; still I am glad to say I was grateful to Santonio. It was about five o'clock when we entered a hackney-coach, and were conveyed to the city from the wide West End. The great river lay as a leaden dream while we ran across the bridge; but how dreamily, drowsily, I can never describe, was conveyed to me that arched darkness spanning the lesser gloom as we turned down dank sweeping steps, and alighted amidst the heavy splash of that rolling tide. There was a confusion and hurry here that mazed my faculties; and most dreadfully alarmed I became at the thought of passing into that vessel set so deep into the water, and looking so largeand helpless. I was on board, however, before I could calculate the possibilities of running away, and so getting home again. Santonio put his arm around me as I crossed to the deck, and I could not but feel how careful the great violin was of the little human instrument committed to his care. Fairly on deck, the whirling and booming, the crowd not too great, but so busy and anxious, the head-hung lamp, and the cheery peeps into cabins lighter still through glittering wires, all gave motion to my spirit. I was soon more excited than ever, and glorified myself so much that I very nearly fell over the side of the vessel into the Thames, while I was watching the wheel that every now and then gave a sleepy start from the oily, dark water. Santonio was looking after our effects for a while, but it was he who rescued me in this instance, by pulling my great-coat (exactly like Fred's) that had been made expressly, for me in the festival-town, and which, feeling very new, made me think about it a great deal more than it was worth. Then laughing heartily, but still not speaking, he led me downstairs. How magnificent I found all there! I was quite overpowered, never having been in any kind of vessel; but what most charmed me was a glimpse of a second wonderful region within the long dining-room,—the feminine retreat, whose door was a little bit ajar.
The smothered noise of gathering steam came from above, and most strange was it to hear the many footed tramp overhead, as we sat upon the sofa, and spread beneath the oval windows all around. And presently I realized the long tables, and all that there was upon them, and was especially delighted to perceive some flowers mounted upon the epergnes.
I was cravingly hungry by this time, for the first timesince I had left my home, and everything here reminded me of eating. Santonio, I suppose, anticipated this fact, for he asked me immediately what I should like. I said I should like some tea and a slice of cold meat. He seemed amused at my choice, and while he drank a glass of some wine or other and ate a crust, I had all to myself a little round tray, with a short, stout tea-pot and enormous breakfast cup set before me; with butter as white as milk, and cream as thick as butter, the butter being developed in a tiny pat, with the semblance of the steamship we were then in stamped upon the top; also a plate covered with meat all over, upon beginning to clear which, I discovered another cartoon in blue of the same subject. After getting to the bottom of the cup, and a quarter uncovering the plate, I could do no more in that line, and Santonio asked me what I should like to do about sleeping. I was startled, for I had not thought about the coming night at all. He led me on the instant to a certain other door, and bade me peep in; I could only think of a picture I had seen of some catacombs,—in fact, I think a catacomb preferable in every respect to a sleeping cabin. The odors that rushed out, of brandy and lamp-oil, were but visionary terrors compared with the aspect of those supernaturally constructed enclosed berths, in not a few of which the victims of that entombment had already deposited themselves.
"I can't sleep in there!" I said shudderingly as I withdrew, and withdrawing, was inexpressibly revived by the air blowing down the staircase. "Oh, let us sit up all night! on the sea too!"
Santonio replied, with great cordiality, that he should prefer such an arrangement to any other, and would see what could be contrived for me.
And so he did; and I can never surpass my own sensationsof mere satisfaction as I lay upon a seat on deck by ten o'clock, with a boat-cloak for my pillow and a tarpaulin over my feet, Santonio by my side, with a cloak all over him like a skin, his feet on his fiddle-case, and an exquisitely fragrant regalia in his mouth.
My feelings soon became those of careering ecstasy,—careering among stars all clear in the darkness over us; of passionate delight, rocked to a dream by the undulation I began to perceive in our seaward motion. I fell asleep about midnight, and woke again at dawn; but I experienced just enough then of existing circumstances in our position to retreat again beneath the handkerchief I had spread upon my face, and again I slept and dreamed.
At noon, when at length I roused myself, we were no longer upon the sea. We swept on tranquilly between banks more picturesque, more glorious, more laden with spells for me, than any haven I had fortified with Spanish castles. Castles there were too, or what I took for castles,—silvery gray amidst leafless trees, and sometimes softest pine woods with their clinging mist. Then came shining country, where the sky met the sun-bright slopes, and then a quiet sail at rest in the tiny harbor. But an hour or two brought me to the idea of cities, though even they were as cities in a dream. And yet this was not the Rhine; but I made sure it was so, having forgotten Clo's geography lessons, and that there could be any other river in Germany,—so that when Santonio told me its real name I was very angry at it. After I had wearied myself with gazing, he drew me back to my seat, and began to speak more consecutively than he had done yet.
"Now, sir," said he, "do you see that castle?" pointing to something in the prospect which may or may not have been a castle, but which I immediately realized as one. "You are to be shut up there. Really and seriously, you have more faith than any one I ever had the honor of introducing yet, under any circumstances whatever. Pray don't you feel any curiosity about your destination?"
"Yes, sir, plenty; but I forgot what I was going for."
"And where you were going to?"
"Sir, I did not know where. I thought you would tell me when you liked."
"I don't know myself, but I daresay we shall fall in with your favorite 'Chevalier.'"
"My favorite who, sir?"
"The gentleman who enslaved you at the performance of the 'Messiah,' in your part of the world."
"Oh, sir! what can I ever say to you? I cannot bear it."
"Cannot bear what? Nay, you must not expect too much of him now you know who he is. He is merely a very clever composer."
"Oh, sir! how did you ever find out?"
"By writing to Milans-André,—another idol for you, by the way."
"Oh! I know all about Milans-André."
"Indeed! and pray what is all about him?"
"I know he plays wonderfully, and fills a large theatre with one pianoforte. Stop! He has a handsome face and long arms,—rather too long for his body. He is very—let me see—something, but not something else; very famous, but not beloved."
"Who told you that? A most coherent description, as it happens."
"Miss Lawrence."
"Miss Lawrence is a blab. So you have no curiosity to learn your fate?"
"I knowthat; but I should like to know where I am going."
"To an old gentleman in a hollow cave."
"I wish I were, and then perhaps he would teach me to make gold."
"That is like a Jew, fie! But the fiddle has made gold."
"Why like a Jew? Because they are rich,—Jews, I mean?"
"Richer generally than most folks, but not all either."
"Oh, sir! I did not mean money." But as I looked at him, I felt he would not, could not, understand what I meant, so I returned to the former charge.
"Does he live in a cellar, sir, or in a very old house?"
"In an old house, certainly. But you won't like him, Auchester,—at least not at first; only he will work you rightly, and take care of your morals and health."
"How, sir?"
"By locking you up when you are at home, and sending you to walk out every day."
"Don't they all send the boys out to walk in Germany then?"
"I suppose so. But how shall you like being locked up?"
"In the dark, sir, do you mean?"
"No, boy; to practise in a little cave of your own."
"Whatdoesmake you call it a cave?"
"Because great treasures are hidden there for such as like the bore of grubbing them up. You have no idea, by the way, how much dirty work there is to do anything at all in music."
"I suppose you mean, togetat anything. But it cannot be worse than what people go through to get to heaven."
"If that is your notion, you are all right. I have taken some trouble to get you into this place, for the old gentleman is a whimsical one, and takes very few pupils now."
"Did you know him, sir, before you heard of him for me?"
"He taught me all I know, except what I taught myself, and that was preciously little. But that was before he came to Lorbeerstadt. I knew nothing about this place. Your favorite learned of him when he was your age, and long afterwards."
"Who, sir,—the same?"
"The conductor."
"Oh, sir!" It was a dreadful thing to feel I had, as it were, got hold of him and lost him again; but Santonio's manner was such that I did not think he could mean the same person.
"Are you sure it is the same, Mr. Santonio?" I reiterated again, and yet again, while my companion, whose laugh had passed into a yawn, was gazing at the smoke.
"Sure? Of course I am sure. I know every conductor in Europe."
"I daresay you do, sir; but this is not a common conductor."
"No conductors are common, my friend. He is very clever, a genius too, and will do a great deal; but he is too young at present to be talked of without caution."
"Why, sir?"
"Because we may spoil him."
I was indignant, I was sick, but so impotent I could only say, "Sir, has he ever heardyouplay?"
"I cannot tell really all the people who hear me play. I don't know who they are in public."
"Have you ever heardhimplay?"
"No."
"Oh, sir! then howcanyou know? What makes you call him Chevalier? Is that his real name?"
"I tell you precisely what I was told, my boy;Milans-André calls him 'My young friend the Chevalier,'—nothing else. Most likely they gave him the order."
Santonio was now talking Dutch to me, and yet I could not bring myself to detain him by further questioning, for he had strolled to the staircase. Soon afterwards the dinner-bell rang. The afternoon being a little spent, we came up again and rested. It was twilight now, and my heart throbbed as it ever does in that intermediate dream. Soon Santonio retired to smoke, and I then lay all along a seat, and looked to heaven until I fell into a doze; and all I felt was real, and I knew less of what was passing around me than of that which stirred within. Long it may have been, but it seemed very soon and suddenly that I was rudely brought to myself by a sound and skurry, and a suspension of our progress. It was dark and bleak besides, and as foggy as I had ever seen it in England,—the lamp at our head was like a moon; and all about me there were shapes, not sights, of houses, and echoes, not sounds, of voices from the shore.
The shore, indeed! And my first impression of Germany was one of simple astonishment to find it, on the whole, so much like, or so little unlike, England. I told Santonio so much, as he stood next me, and curbed me with his arm from going forwards. He answered that he supposed I thought they all lived in fiddle-cases and slept upon pianofortes. I was longing to land indefinably. I knew not where I was, how near or how far from my appointed place of rest. I will not say my heart was sad, it was only sore, to find Santonio, though so handsome, not quite so beautiful a spirit as my first friend, Lenhart Davy. We watched almost half the passengers out of the boat; the rest were to continue their fresh-water route to a large city far away, and we were the last to land of all who landed there.
In less than an hour, thanks to Santonio's quickening of the pulses of existence at our first landing-place, we were safe in a hackney-coach (very unlike any other conveyance), if indeed it could be called "safe" to be so bestowed, as I was continually precipitated against Santonio. His violin-case had never left his hand since we quitted the vessel,—and this was just as well, for it might have suffered from the jolting. Its master was all kindness now. "Cheer up," said he; "do not let your idea of German life begin here. You will soon find plenty to amuse you." He rubbed the reeking fog from one glass with his handkerchief forthwith, and I, peeping out, saw something of houses drawing near. They were dim and tall and dark, as if they had never fronted daylight. It took us quite half an hour to reach the village, notwithstanding, for our pace was laboriously tardy; and again and again I wished I had stayed with Santonio at the little inn where we took the coach, and to which he was himself to return to sleep, having bespoken a bed there; for I felt that day would have done everything for me in manning and spiriting me, and that there was too much mystery in my transition state already to bear the surcharging mystery of night with thought undaunted. Coming into that first street, I believed we should stop every instant, for the faint few lamps, strung here and there, gave me a notion of gabled windows and gray-black arches, nothing more definite than any dream; so much the better. Still we stopped not anywhere in that region, nor even when, having passed the market-place with its little colonnade, we turned, or were shaken, into a quiet square. It came upon me like a nook of panorama; but I heard the splash of falling water before I beheld, starting from the mist, its shape, as it poured into a basin of shadowystone beneath a skeleton tree, whose lowest sprays I could have touched as we drove near the fountain, so close we came. And then I saw before me a church, and could discern the stately steps and portico, even the crosses on the graves, which bade me remember that they died also in Germany. No organ echoes pealed, or choral song resounded, no chime struck; but my heart beat all these tunes, and for the first time I associated the feeling of religion with any earth-built shrine.
It was in a street beyond the square, and overlooked by the tower of the church itself, that at length we stopped indeed, and that I found myself bewildered at once by darkness and expectation, standing upon the pavement before a foreign doorway, enough for any picture of the brain.
"Now," said my escort, "I will take you upstairs first,—for you would never find your way,—and then return and see after all these things. The man won't run away with them, I believe,—he is too ugly to be anything but honest. I hope you do not expect a footman to open the door?"
"I dislike footmen, but there is no knocker. Please show me the bell, Mr. Santonio."
"Please remember that this is a mountain which contains many caves besides that to which we are about to commit you. And if you interfere with anybody else's cave, the inhabitant will spring up yours with gunpowder."
"I know that a great many people live in one house,—my mother said so; but she never told me how you got into the houses."
"I will tell you now. You see the bells here, like organ-stops: this is yours. Number I cannot read, butI know it from the description I took care to procure. I will ring now, and they will let us in."
I found, after waiting in profound expectation, that the door had set itself open, just as the gate of the London Temple Garden is wont to do; but instead of finding access to sunshine and beds of flowers, we were plunged, on our entrance, into darkness which might be felt.
Santonio, evidently accustomed to all conventionalities of all countries, expressed no astonishment, and did not even grumble, as I should have expected a person of his temperament to do. I was so astonished that I could not speak. How soon I learned to love that very darkness, and to leap up and down those very stairs even in the darkness! though I now held Santonio's hand so tightly that I could feel the lissom muscles double up and bend in. He drew me after him gently and carefully to the first floor, and again to the second without speaking, and then we stood still to take breath.
"That was a pull!" he observed. "Suppose the old gentleman has gone to bed?"
"Oh, sir! then I will go back with you until to-morrow."
"No, indeed." He laid hold upon my arm. "Listen! hush!"
I stood listening from head to foot. I heard the beloved but unfamiliar voice; creeping down another story, it came—myviolin, ortheviolin, somewhere up in the clouds. I longed to rush forward now, and positively ran up the stairs yet remaining. There upon my one hand was the door through whose keyhole, whose every crack, that sound had streamed, and I knew it as I passed, and waited for Santonio upon the haunted precinct.
"Now," said he, arriving very leisurely at the top, "we shall go in to see the old gentleman."
"Will he have a beard, sir, as he is a Jew?"
"Who told you he has a Jew-beard? Nevertheless he has a beard; but pray hold your tongue about the Jews,—at least till you know him a little better."
"I do not mean," thought I diffidently, "to talk to the old gentleman. If he is a Jew I shall know it, and it will be enough;" but I did not say so to Santonio, who did not appear to prize his lineage as I did the half of mine. My heart began to beat faster than from the steep ascent, when he, without preparing me further, rapped very vigorously upon another unseen door. I heard no voice reply, but I concluded he did, as he deliberately turned the lock, and drew me immediately after him as I had shrunk behind him. I need not have been afraid,—the room was empty. It was a room full of dusky light; that is, all tones which blended into it were dim, and its quaint nicety put every new-world notion out of the way for the time. The candles upon the table were brightly trimmed, but not wax,—only slender wax ones beamed in twisted sconces from the desk of an organ that took up the whole side of the room, opposing us as we entered, and whose pipes were to my imagining childhood lost in the clouds, indeed, for the roof of the room had been broken to admit them. The double key-board, open, glittered black and white, and I was only too glad to be able to examine it as closely as I wished. The room had no carpet, but I did not miss it or want it, for the floor was satin bright with polish, and its general effect was ebony, while that of the furniture was oak. There was a curious large closet in a corner, like another little room put away intothis one; but what surprised me most was that the chamber was left to itself.
"Where is he?" said Santonio, appealing to the silence; but then he seemed to be reminded, and shouted very loud in German some name I could not realize, but which I write, having since realized. "Aronach![13]where art thou?"
In German, and very loud, a voice replied, as coming down the organ-pipes: "I am aloft chastising an evil spirit; nor will I descend until I have packed the devil downstairs." At this instant, more at hand than the sound I had met upon the staircase, there was a wail as of a violin in pain; but I could not tell whether it was a fiddle or a child, until the wail, in continuing, shifted from semitone to semitone.
Santonio sat down in one of the chairs and laughed; then arose, having recovered himself, and observed, "If this is his behavior, I may as well go and see after your boxes. Keep yourself here till I come back; but if he come down, salute him in German, and it will be all right."
He retired and I remained; and now I resolved to have another good look. One side of the room I had not yet examined. Next the door I found a trio or quartet of three-legged stools, fixed one into the other, and nearest them a harpsichord,—a very harpsichord with crooked legs. It was covered with baize, and a pile of music-books reposed upon the baize, besides some antique instrument-cases. Other and larger caseswere on the floor beneath the harpsichord; there hung a talisman or two of glittering brass upon the wall, by floating ribbons of red.
Then I fastened myself upon the pictures, and those strange wreaths of withered leaves that waved between them, and whose searest hues befitted well their vicinage. As I stood beneath those pictures, those dead-brown garlands rustled as if my light breath had been the autumn wind. I was stricken at once with melancholy and romance, but I understood not clearly the precise charm of those relics, or my melancholy would have lost itself in romance alone.
There was one portrait of Bach. I knew it again, though it was a worthier hint of him than Davy's; and underneath that portrait was something of the same kind, which vividly fascinated me by its subject. It was a very young head, almost that of an infant, lying, rather than bending, over an oblong book, such in shape as those represented in pictures of literary cherubs. The face was more than half forehead, which the clustering locks could not conceal, though they strove to shadow; and in revenge, the hair swept back and tumbled sideways, curling into the very swell of the tender shoulder. The countenance was of sun-bright witchery, lustrous as an elf of summer laughing out of a full-blown rose. Tiny hands were doubled round the book, and the lips wore themselves a smile that seemed to stir and dimple, and to flutter those floating ringlets. It was strange I was, though so unutterably drawn to it, in nothing reminded of any child or man I had ever seen, but merely thought it an ideal of the infant music, if music could personate infancy. After a long, long gaze I looked away, expressly to have the delight of returning to it; and then I saw the stove and approved of it, instead of missing,as I was told at home I should miss, the hearthrug and roseate fire-shine. Indeed, the stove was much more in keeping here, according to my outlandish taste.
Before I returned to the picture Santonio re-entered, and finding me still alone, took up a broom which he discovered in some region, and, mounted on a chair, made with it no very gentle demonstrations upon the ceiling, which was low, and which he could thus easily reach. In about ten minutes more, I could feel, no less than hear, a footstep I did not know, for I am generally cognizant of footsteps. This was cautious and slow, yet not heavy; and I was aware it could be none other than that of my master presumptive. If I could have turned myself into a mustard-pot, to delay my introduction, I would have done so without the slightest hesitation; but no! I remained myself, and he, all himself, opened the door and came in. I had expected a tall man,—broad; here was a little gentleman no bigger than Davy, with a firm and defiant tread, clad in a garment that wrapped about his feet, in color brown, that passed well into the atmosphere of his cave. He confronted Santonio as if that wonder were a little girl in petticoats, with no more reverence and not less benevolence, for he laid one arm upon his shoulder and embraced him, as in England only very young and tender brothers embrace, or a son embraces his father. There was complaisance together with condescension in his aspect; but when he turned upon me, both complaisance and condescension were overpast, and a lour of indifference clouded my very faculties as with a film of worldly fear. Then he chucked me under the chin, and held me by it a moment without my being aware whether he examined me or not, so convenientlydisposed were his black eye-lashes; and then he let me go again, and turned his back upon me.
"Sit!" said he to Santonio; and then he threw his hand behind him, and pointing, without turning his head, indicated the group of stools. I nervously disentangled one and sat down upon it then and there by the side of the very harpsichord. Santonio being also seated, and wearing, though as cool as usual, a less dominant aspect, the brisk demon marched to the bureau, which I had taken little heed of, under the window, but which, upon his opening, I discovered to be full of all sorts of drawers and pigeon-holes, where a family of young mice would have enjoyed a game at hide-and-seek. He stood there writing, without any apology, for some time, and only left off when a female servant, brilliant and stolid as a Dutch doll, threw the door open again to bring in supper.