Medoline Selwyn's Work Part 18

Winthrop's words. A few moments after I glanced at my guardian. His eyes were closed, the lines of his face looked hard and stern. I wondered if it never softened even in sleep, or did it always wear that look that some way brought to my mind the old Vikings of the frozen north.

Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the concert. Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and would not accompany us.

"I thought you particularly admired Beethoven's Ninth Symphony," I exclaimed, with surprise.

"I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer gives them great praise. I would as soon hear that Lark.u.m baby crowing as to hear such a masterpiece mangled."

"Some pa.s.sages will be well rendered, surely."

"What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord? I shall expect, however, a full account of the performance from you."

"I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in Belgium. I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after."

"And why not?"

"It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far beyond my powers to master."

His face softened, while he arose from his chair and came a few steps nearer to me.

"Only one or two human beings, so far as we know, have had musical powers equal to Beethoven. Most men are satisfied if they can perform harmoniously his creations."

"I could never do that. I might by years of hard study get so far as to strike the correct notes, but the soul and expression would elude me, simply because I have not brain power sufficient to comprehend them. A thrush would be foolish to emulate the nightingale."

"Yes but some one might be gladdened by its own simple note," he said, gently.

I was silent, while his words sank comfortably in my heart.

Looking up, at last, I caught his eye.

"I will try to be satisfied with my thrush's note, and make the best of it."

"That is right, but make sure that you are not any better song bird than the thrush, before you rest satisfied with its simple accomplishment."

Very earnestly and sincerely I promised him to do my best, and then followed Mrs. Flaxman from the room. Our escort proved to be Mr. Bovyer, a grave man, not so young as Mr. Winthrop, and who had a genuine pa.s.sion for cla.s.sic music. I fancied from his name and partiality for German composers that he must be either directly or remotely of Teutonic origin.

Beethoven was his great favorite. He averred that the latter had penetrated further into the mysteries of music than any other human being. He seemed transformed while we sat listening to the great waves of harmony bewildering our senses; for, notwithstanding Mr. Winthrop's prophecy, the concert was a success. He had a stolid face. One might take him almost for a retired, well-to-do butcher; but when the air was pulsating with delicious sounds, his face lighted up and grew positively handsome.

"I wonder how you will endure the music of the immortals, that G.o.d listens to, if you get with the saved by and bye?" I said, impulsively.

He shook his head doubtfully, but gave me at the same time a look of surprise.

"I do not ask for anything better than Beethoven," he replied quietly.

Some way I felt saddened. The Creator was so much beyond the highest object of his creative skill, even though that is or might be one so gloriously endowed as Beethoven; it seemed strange that a thinking, intellectual being would grasp the less when he might lay hold on the greater. I glanced around on the gay, richly-dressed throng--pretty women in garments as harmonious in form and color almost as the music that was thrilling at least some of us; some of them fair enough, I fancied, to be walking in a better world than ours; then, by some strange freak of the imagination, I fell to thinking of the poverty and sorrow, and breaking hearts all about us, until the music seemed to change to a minor chord; and away back of all other sounds I seemed to hear the sob and moan of the dying and broken-hearted. Perhaps some new chord had been touched in my own heart that had never before responded to human things; for in spite of myself I sat and wept with a full, aching heart. I tried to s.h.i.+eld my face with my fan and at last regained my composure, and tried, in sly fas.h.i.+on, to dry my eyes with the bit of lace I called my handkerchief, and which I found a very poor subst.i.tute for the substantial lawn hitherto used. At last I regained my composure sufficiently to look up, when I found Mr. Bovyer regarding me keenly. He glanced away, but after that his manner grew sympathetic, and on our way home he said,

"I am glad to know you can understand great musical conceptions."

"I found it very, very sad. I scarce ever realized how much pain there might be in this world, as for a little while I did to-night."

"The tears were sorrowful then, and not glad?" he said, gently.

"My tears are always that. I cannot conceive a joy so great as to make me weep."

"Your heart is not fully wakened yet, some day you will understand; but be thankful you can understand a part. Not many at your age feel the master's touch so keenly." When we said good-night, he asked permission to call next day. I waited for Mrs. Flaxman to reply, and turned to her, seeing she hesitated. She smiled and I could see answered for me.

"We shall be happy to see you. Mr. Winthrop receives his friends, I believe, to-morrow evening." As we went to our rooms she said:--"Won't it be wonderful if you have captivated Mr. Bovyer's heart?--I am sure Mr.

Winthrop considered him a safe escort, so far as love entanglements were concerned."

"That old man thinking of love! He looks as if he thought much more of his dinner than anything else."

"Probably he does bestow some attention on it; but he is not old, at least not more than six and thirty. Beside he is a very clever man--a musical critic and good writer; in fact, one of Mr. Winthrop's most intimate friends."

"That, I presume, speaks volumes in his favor," I said, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes; Mr. Winthrop is an unerring judge of character; that is, of late years."

"Well, I would nearly as soon think of marrying Daniel Blake as this Mr.

Bovyer. I have never been in love, but I have an idea what it is," I said, following Mrs. Flaxman to her room.

"But Mr. Bovyer might teach you. Did you ever read Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream?"

"Oh, yes; and of t.i.tania and Bottom of course, but that was only a dream--Mr. Bovyer is a very solid reality. But I must not stay here gossiping. Mr. Winthrop will be waiting for my description of the music."

I slipped into my own room to lay aside my wraps, still smiling over Mrs.

Flaxman's childish ideas respecting Mr. Bovyer in the _role_ of a lover, and also a little troubled about the wording of the report I was expected to give. His smile would be more sarcastic than ever, if I confessed my tears; and, alas, I had but little other impression to convey of the majestic harmonies than one of profound sadness. I glanced into my mirror; the picture reflected back startled me. In the handsome gown, with the same gems that had once enhanced my mother's charms, the transformation wrought was considerable; but my eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a deep, unusual brilliancy, and a new expression caused by the influences of the evening had changed my face almost beyond my own recognition. I went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book.

I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my presence. I went to the fireside. On the mantle I noticed, for the first time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so mournfully in my ears. I took it in my hand and went nearer the light, soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my guardian over his book. When I looked at him his book was closed, and his eyes regarding me attentively.

"Do you recognize the face?"

"Oh, yes. I wonder he looks like other men."

"Why should he look differently?"

"Because he was different. I wonder what his thoughts were when he was writing that symphony?" I held the bust off reflectively.

"Did you enjoy your evening's entertainment?"

"Yes and no,--I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop. Please don't ask me to describe it."

"I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer--he could tell me better than you. He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a fear he sees too far beneath our mask."

"I don't want to see him any more then," I said impetuously.

"Why not?"

"I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than you do, Mr. Winthrop."

"How do you know that I object?"

"Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?"