“Upon my word,” said Ashmead, “there is a deal of 'go' in that.”
Then they sung the “Nuno Dimittis.” He said, a little dryly, there was plenty of repose in that.
“My friend,” said she, “there is—to the honor of the composer: the 'Magnificat' is the bright and lofty exultation of a young woman who has borne the Messiah, and does not foresee His sufferings, only the boon to the world and the glory to herself. But the 'Dimittis' is the very opposite. It is a gentle joy, and the world contentedly resigned by a good old man, fatigued, who has run his race, and longs to sleep after life's fever. When next you have the good fortune to hear that song, think you see the sun descending red and calm after a day of storms, and an aged Christian saying, 'Good-night,' and you will honor poor dead King as I do. The music that truly reflects great words was never yet small music, write it who may.”
“You are right, madam.” said Ashmead. “When I doubted its being good music, I suppose I meant salable.”
“Ah, voil'a!” said the Klosking. Then, turning to Vizard for sympathy, “What this faithful friend understands by good music is music that can be sold for a good deal of money.”
“That is so,” said Ashmead, stoutly. “I am a theatrical agent. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. You have tried it more than once, you know, but it would not work.”
Ashmead amused Vizard, and he took him into his study, and had some more conversation with him. He even asked him to stay in the house; but Ashmead was shy, and there was a theater at Taddington. So he said he had a good deal of business to do; he had better make the “Swan” his headquarters. “I shall be at your service all the same, sir, or Mademoiselle Klosking's.”
“Have a glass of Madeira, Mr. Ashmead.”
“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I have had one or two.”
“Then it knows the road.”