Charles Auchester Volume II Part 17

"Well, I am dying of thirst to hear my first movement, which is written, and which is that sight to my eyes that my ears desire it to the full as much as they. The second still lingers,--it will not be invoked. I could, if I could calculate the effect of the first, produce a second equal to it, I know. But as it is yet in my brain, it will not give place to another."

"You have tried it upon the piano,--try it for me."

"No, I cannot, Carl. It is nothing thus; and, strange to say, though I have written it, I cannot play it."

"I can believe that."

"But no one else would, Carl; and therefore it must be folly for me to have undertaken this writing,--for we are both children, and I suppose must remain so, after all."

It struck me that the melancholy which poured that pale mask upon her face was both natural and not unnecessary,--I even delighted in it; for a thought, almost an idea, flashed straight across my brain, and lighted up the future, that was still to remain my own, although that dazzle was withdrawn. I knew what to do now, though I trembled lest I should not find the way to do it.

"So, Maria, you are not going to finish it just now. Suppose you lend it to me for a little. I should like to examine it, and it will do me good."

"Carl, it is not sufficiently scientific to do you good, but I wish you would take it away, for if I keep it with me, I shall destroy it; and I shall like it to remain until some day, when G.o.d has taught me more than in myself I know, or than I can learn of men."

"I will take the greatest care of it, Maria," I said, almost fearing it to be a freak on her part that she suffered my possession, or that she might withdraw it. "You will ask me for it when you want it; and, Maria, I have heard it said that it is a good thing to let your compositions lie by, and come to them with a fresh impression."

"That is exactly what I think. You see with me, Carl, that all which has to do with music is not music now."

"I think that there is less of the world in music than in anything else, even in poetry, Maria. But, of course, music must itself fall short of our ideas of it; and I daresay you found that your beautiful feelings would not change themselves into music exactly as beautiful as they were. I know very little music yet, Maria, but I never found _any_ that did not disappoint my feeling about it when I was hearing it, except the Chevalier's."

"That is it, Carl. What am I to endeavor, after anything that he has accomplished? But I feel that if I could not produce the very highest musical work in the very highest style, I would not produce any, and would rather die."

"I cannot understand that; I would rather wors.h.i.+p than be wors.h.i.+pped."

"I would not. I cannot tell why, but I have a feeling, which will not let me be content with proving what has gone before me. Dearly as I love Florimond, he could not put this feeling out of me. I am not content to be an actress. There have been actresses who were queens, and some few angels. I know my heart is pure in its desires, and I should have no objection to reign. But it must be over a new kingdom.

No woman has ever yet composed."

"Oh, yes, Maria!"

"I say no to you, Carl,--not as I mean. I mean no woman has been supreme among men, as the Chevalier among musicians. I have often wondered why. And I feel--at least, I did feel--that I could be so, and do this. But I feel it no longer,--it has pa.s.sed. Carl, I am very miserable and cast down."

I could easily believe it, but I was too young to trust to my own decision. Had Clara been speaking, I should have implicitly relied, for she always knew herself. But Maria was so wayward, so fitful, and of late so peculiar that I dared not entertain that confidence in her genius which was yet the strongest presentiment that had ever taken hold upon me. I carried away the score, which I had folded up while she had spoken; and I shall never forget the half-forlorn, half-wistful look with which she followed it in my arms as I left her.

But I dared not stay, for fear she should change her mind; and although I would fain have entered into her heart to comfort her, I could not even try. I was in a breathless state to see that score, but not much came to my examination. The sheets were exquisitely written, the manner of Seraphael being exactly imitated, or naturally identical,--the very noting of a fac-simile, as well as the autograph.

It was styled, "First Symphony," and the key was F minor. But the composition was so full and close as to swamp completely my childish criticism. I thought it appeared all right, and very, very wonderful; but that was all. I wrapped it in one of my best silk handkerchiefs, to keep it from the dust, and laid it away in my box, together with my other treasures from home, which ever reposed there; and then I returned to my work, but certainly more melancholy than I had ever remembered myself in life.

In March, one day, Maria stayed from school; but her brother Joseph brought me from her a message. She was indisposed, or said to be so, and begged me to go and see her. There was no difficulty in doing so, but I was surprised that Anastase should not be with her, or at least that he should appear, as he did, so unconcerned. When I expressed my regret to Joseph Cerinthia, he added that she was only in bed for a cold. I was both pleased and flattered that she had sent for me, but still could not comprehend it, as she was so little ill. I ran down, after the morning, intending to dine with her, or not, I did not care which. But instead of her being in bed, she was in the parlor.

"I thought, Maria, you were not up."

"I was not; and now I am not dressed. Carl, I sent for you to ask for the ma.n.u.script again."

I looked at her to see whether she meant her request, for it was by no means easy to say. She looked very brilliant, but had an unusual darkness round her eyes,--a wide ring of the deepest violet. She either had wept forth that shadow, or was in a peculiar state. Neither tears nor smiles were upon her face, and her lips burned with a living scarlet,--no rose-soft red, as wont. Her hair, fastened under her cap in long bands, fell here and there, and seemed to have no strength.

She had been drinking _eau sucree_, for a gla.s.s of it was upon the table, and a few fresh flowers, which she hastened to put away from her as I entered. I was so much affected by her looks, though no fear seized me, that I took her hand. It was dry and warm, but very weak and tremulous.

"Maria, you were at that garden last night, and danced. I knew how it would be,--it was too early in the year."

"I was not at the Spielheim, for when Florimond said none of you were going from Cecilia, I declined. But no dancing would have made me ill as I have been; it was nothing to care for, and is now past."

"Was it cold, then? It seems more like fever."

"It was neither, or perhaps a little of both. Let me have my score again, Carl. I need only ask for it, you know, as it is mine."

"You need not be so proud, Maria. I shall of course return it, but not unless you promise me to do no more to it just now."

"Not _just_ now. But I made believe to be ill on purpose that I might have a day's leisure. I must also copy it out."

"Maria, you never made believe, for if you _could_ tell a lie, it would not be for yourself. You _have_ been ill, and I suspect much that I know how. If you will tell me, I will fetch the score,--that is, if it is good for you to have it. But I would rather burn it than that it should hurt you; and I tell you, it all depends upon that."

"I will tell you, Carl, and more, because it is over now, and cannot happen again. I was lying in my bed, and heard the clock strike ten. I thought also that I had heard it rain; so I got up and looked out.

There was no rain, but there were stars; and seeing them, my thoughts grew bright,--bright as when I imagined that music; and being in the same mood,--that is, quiet and yet excited, if you can believe in both together,--I went to my writing. It was all there ready for me; and Josephine, who always disturbs me, because she talks, was very fast asleep. It may sound proud, Carlino, but I am certain the Chevalier was with me,--that he stood behind my chair, and I could not look round for fear of seeing him. He guided my hand; he thrust out my ideas,--all grew clear; and I was not afraid, even of a ghost companion."

"But the Chevalier is alive and well."

"And yet, I tell you, his ghost was with me. Well, Carl, I had written until I could not see, for my lamp went out, and it was not yet light.

I suppose I then fell asleep, for I certainly had a vision."

"What was that, Maria?"

"Countless crowds, Carl, first, and then a most horrible whirl and rush. Then a serene place, gray as morning before the sun, with great golden organ-pipes, that shot up into and cut through the sky; for although it was gray beneath, and I seemed to stand upon clouds, it was all blue over me, and when I looked up, it seemed to return my gaze. I heard a sound under me, like an orchestra, such as we have often heard. But _above_, there was another music, and the golden pipes quivered as if with its trembling; yet it was not the organ that seemed to speak, and no instrument was there besides. This music did not interfere with the music of the orchestra,--still playing onwards,--but it swelled through and through it, and seemed to stretch like a sky into the sky. Oh, Carl, that I could describe it to you! It was like all we feel of music,--beyond all we hear, given to us in hearing."

She paused. Now a light, quenched in thrilling tears, arose, and glittered from her eyes. She looked overwrought, seraphic; for though her hand, which I still held, was not changed or cold, her countenance told unutterable wonder,--the terrors of the heavenliest enthusiasm, I knew not how to account for.

"Maria, dear! I have had quite as strange dreams, and almost as sweet.

It was very natural, but you were very, very naughty all the same.

What did you do when you awoke?"

"I awoke I don't know how, Carl, nor when; but I resolved to give into my symphony all that the dream had given me, and I wrote again.

This time I left off, though in a very odd manner. The clock struck five, and all the people were in the streets. I was cold, which I had forgotten, and my feet were quite as ice. I was about to turn a leaf when I s.h.i.+vered and dropped my pen. But when I stooped down to find it in the early twilight, which, I thought, would help me, I fell upon the floor. My head was as if fire had burst into it, and a violent pain came on, that drove me to my bed. I have had such a pain before,--a little, but very much less; for I believed I could not bear it. I did fall asleep too, for a long time, and never heard a sound; and when I arose, I was as well as I need to be, or ever expect. But as I don't wish to be ill again, I must finish the symphony at once."

"So you think I shall allow it? No, Maria, it is out of the question; but I will fetch a doctor for you."

"Carl, you are a baby. I have seen a doctor in Paris for this very pain. He can do nothing for it, and says it is const.i.tutional, and that I shall always be subject to it. Everybody has something they are subject to,--Florimond has the gout."

I laughed,--glad to have anything at all to laugh at.

"I am really well now, Carl,--have had a warm bath, and leeches upon my temples; everything. The woman here has waited upon me, and has been very kind; and now I have sent her away, for I do hate to seem ill and be thought ill."

"Leeches, Maria?"

"Oh, that is nothing! I put them on whenever I choose. Did you never have them on, Carl?"

"No, never. I had a blister for the measles, because I could not bear to think about leeches. I did not know people put them on for the headache."

"I always do, and so does everybody for such headaches as mine. But they have taken away the pain, and that is all I care for. They are little cold creepers, though; and I was glad to pull them off."

"Show me the marks, Maria."