Charles Auchester, Volume 2 (of 2)

, blooming; my memory expands to it now. From Italy he returned. He came upon us suddenly,-there was no

liness I sought him always. We heard, even among the moss, a noise of distant shoutings,-nobody shouted in that spot except our own,-and we hurried homewards. I was quite

the hill." I am ashamed of what I did. I could not return to Cecilia; I wandered about in the village

central table, having waited until then, deliberately took from his deep pocket and presented me with a note, a very tiny note, that was none t

ll my eldest child? Come to me, then, to-morrow, it will be thy Sunday, and thy r

, Ser

ed that in proportion to the power of his genius was it ever beneficently gentle. I spent such an afternoon as would ha

me was come. I therefore taught myself to say: "Sir, I have a very, most particular favor to ask of you; it is that you will condescend to give m

, no, rather we will go in-doors together and

y. It is a young lady's, and she knows noth

ts keys, milk-white and satin-soft, recalling me but to that which was lovelier than her very vision,-the lustrous presence pervading that luxury of artistic life. Seraphael was more innocent, more brilliant in

eyes, that seemed to have drawn into them the very violet of the Italian heaven, so dark they gleamed through the down-let lashes, fasten themselves eagerly for an instant upon the title-sheet, where, after his own fashion, Maria had written her ancient name, "Cerinthia," only, in the co

hose signs; but he spoke not, stirred not. It seemed to me that I must not watch him,

likeness of the self-crowned Beethoven. It was garlanded with grapes and vine-leaves that fondled the wild locks in gracefullest fraternity; it was mounted upon a pedestal of granite, where also the alabaster fruits and tendrils clustered, clasping it like frozen summer, and beneath the bust the own investment glittered,-"Tonkunst's Bacchus."[6] It was no longer difficult to pass away the

Carlomein, that she h

as all and entirely her own. No one

terrible, Carlomein, to think that this work might have perished; an

a was very ignorant about it, and c

ed his sweetest smile. "But for all that, we will not s

just now, and I merely said: "I rather think she was dissatisfied with the first two movem

shed. The work is of Heaven's own. What earthly inspiration could have taught her stra

d where I could both see and hear. It was the second movement that first arrested him. He gave to the white-faced keys a hundred voices. Tone upon tone was built; the chords grew larger and larger; no other ha

ulpture of the most perfect chiselling from a block of the softest grain,-so appropriate, so masterly. But what pained me through the loveliness of

rain, his lips grew grave, the ecstatic smile was lost, and in his eyes there was a dim expression, though they melted not to tears. I was sure that Maria had

ough it, neither when he had played as far as she had

r own. It was as two flowers whose form is single and the same, but the hues were of different distribution, and still his own supreme. I cannot describe the first movement further. I was too young to be astonished, carried away by the

he score with the Chevalier; and though he did not tell me so in so

since my rebellious behavior. She was alone, and even now writing. She arose hastily, and for some moments could not command her voice

it all for me, in spite of my ingratitude; and, alas! I never can repay you. I feel, Carl, now, that it

e as the violets that strewed her eyes. The faint blue threads of veins on the backs of her hands, the thin polish of those temples standing clear f

sed at the renewal of my fears, for on the Saturday she had not only seemed, but be

makes you ill, or look so ill? You were quite well on Saturday, I th

better, no heart-pain now. Do you know what is to be? I tell you, because you will rejoice that you

-I thought of that. But

,-he even entreated, the proud soul, the divinely missioned, entreated me to perpetuate the work.

ase? Does he know, an

ou what he did. He was foolish, and so wa

There is nothing

was by. He must love Florimond now, for he fetched him h

ce, and that all we love and long to cherish is but taken that it may remain, beyond us, to ripen in eternity until we too ripen to enjoy it.

ould rest, as it does, and as alone the dead beside repose,-in hope. I have brought myself to the recollection of certain passages in my youth's history simpl

after a lapse of eventful times, that what has happened was not only the best, but the only thing to happen, all things considered that have intervened. This I f

Maria. I can only say of my impressions that they were of the utmost perfectibility

e was still and silent. I watched her glide from room to room at Cecilia, or found her dark hair sweeping the score at home so calmly-she herself calmer than the calmest,-calm as Anastase himself. Indeed, to him she appeared to have transferred the whole impetuousness of her nature; he was changed also, his kindness to

satisfaction at a premature publicity was such that the Chevalier-autocratic even in granting a favor,

. Maria was herself to conduct the rehearsal, and those alone whose assistance she would demand had received an intimation of the secret of her authorship. I trembled when the concluding announcement was made to me, for I had a feeling that she could not

oncluded by the week before our concert, and there remained rather less for me to do. Those few days I was inexpressibly wretched,-a f

nly Florimond, who was behind me, ran and joined her before I beheld that she beckoned to me. I did hardly like to go forward as they were both together, but he also made me approach by a very gentle smil

was already playing with Florimond's fingers, as if she were quite a

ross that was hung with faded garlands, "why don

day, everything is so bright; but nothing can be as bright as I wish it. Carl, I was going to tell Florimond, and I will tell you, that I feel

d, Maria?" I asked

f it were scarcely the thing for me to do, to stand up and co

t, as a woman, allow your feelings to get the better of you. I have a

not se

your work should in any respect fail, i

is countenance; a vague sadness possessed it, a certain air of tender res

e!" I exclaimed; "why, we a

confess my ignorance. If our symphony even prove

d?" she demand

health. You know w

or a year. That

o. You make every poi

what you mean

can

ade. "I have told you, Florimond, ho

d me also wh

t I could not bear to conjectur

ny hardship to be discouraged from too much effort, especially

ry unkind,

I though

are to pl

ad not a thought

. But you are right; I wrote without referen

ess now for it?

over; I desire to hear it once, and then you may

d of what you loved. But, Maria, I trust this weariness of yours wil

Florimond; but

and, indeed, it has sufficed to leave behind it what is as but a picture once discerned, and then forever darkened,-the cool, early romance of the wreaths and garlands (for we all rose at dawn to decorate the entrance, the cor

ep,-at all events I could even realize less. Maria was not at hand, nor could I see her, she breakfasted alone with An

; there I rested, perhaps slept. Strange thoughts were mine in that short time, which seemed immeasurably lengthening,-most like dreams, too, those very thou

either side our own dark lines the female pupils,-a double streak of white. I have not alluded to our examinations, with which, however, I had had little enough to do. But we all pressed forward in contemporaneous state, and so entered the antechambe

s and azure ribbons, hung exactly above the table; but the table was itself covered with snowy da

to myself,-only half, despite the overture of his, with choral relief, with intersong, that I had

notwithstanding calls to order and the pulses of the measuring voices. Just

rl, if the Chevalier pre

tried for

nevertheless distinguish

. Keep near

am glad to be near you! Is that a lyre a

e,-hers was as the light of snow. She was all pale except her eyes, and that strange halo she had never lost shone dim as the darkliest violets, a soft yet awful hue. I had replied to her question

sts and portraits of the hierarchy of music, lay together in according contrast. For, as I have not yet mentioned, the Chevalier had carried out his abolition of the badges to the utmost; there was not a medal to be seen. Bu

marbled quietness crept over every muscle; and as I met her exquisite countenance in profile, with the eyes downward

-and he so long continued to trifle with them that I felt as if he saw Maria, and desired to attract from her all other eyes, for he ta

, something which he retained in his hand, and which it now struck me that he had concealed, whatever it was, by that flower-play of his al

joyous, "are too small to make speeches about; but in memory of seve

y, seriously, yet half surprised, as it were, shook his head, placing in her hand the first of the unknown caskets he had brought, and the other in my own. She took it without looking

exhibited to her. It was a full-blown rose of beaten silver, white as snow, without a leaf, but exquisite

violet cut from a single amethyst-as perfectly executed as hers. I thrust it into my pocket, for I could not at that instant eve

handle the bow; and at least I achieved composure of behavior. Anastase, I can remember, came to me; he touched my hand, and as if he longed, with all loosened pa

r a short separation for refreshment, we returned there, and were

anks were filled, had descended, as was arranged, into the void space, that he might be prepared to criticise the performance. He did not seem much in the mood

neither hurried nor abashed, she came in her virgin calm, her virgin paleness. But as they stood for one moment at the foot of the orchestra, he paused, arrested her, his hand was raised; and in a moment, with a smile whose tenderness for

ed upon the polish of her forehead, so arched, so eminent; but, alas! upon the languors also that had woven their awful mists around her eyes. Her softly curling lips spoke nothing now but the language of sleep in infancy, so gently parted, but not as in inspiration. As she raised that arm so calmly, and the fir

ot aware of playing, or how I played, though very conscious of the weight upon my heart and upon every instrument. Even Anastase, next whom I stood, was not himself in playing.

neous pause she also paused. Then strangely, suddenly, her arm fell powerless, her paleness quickened to crimson, her brow grew warm with a bursting blood-red blush,-she sank to the floor up

e that I, for one, could never have broken. Poor Florimond's violin lay shattered upon the floor, the strings shivered, and yet shuddering; the rose lay also low. None

om was deserted also, and all who had been there had gone. Whither? Oh! where might they now remain? Franz whispered to me, and of his few, sad words-half hope, half fear, all anguish-I cannot repeat the echo. But it is sufficient for