"Aster is Latin; I have begun Latin. But do please go, I have so much to do, and he will be so very angry,—so very, very cross!"
"How dare you say so, when he has never even tied your hands together! You should not be hurt nor disgraced, little Starling; if I were there, I would be punished instead, for I have twice your strength. But you should try to love him while you fear him."
"You speak like a great man, and I will try. But please to go now, for I find this very hard."
I left him, having selfishly shrunk from the necessity to interrogate Iskar.
I stole to his door. I was really electrified as I stood,—not with envy, but with amazement! He was already a wonderful mechanist. Such sallies of execution were to me tremendous, but his tone did not charm me, and I imagined it might be the defect of his instrument that it sounded thin and cold, unlike my notion altogether, and frosty as the frost without. Clearly and crisply it saluted me as I entered. The room was like ours,—the little one's and mine; but it was gayly adorned with pictures of the lowest order (such as are hawked about the streets in England), and only conspicuous from their unnaturally vivid coloring. They were chiefly figures of ladies dancing, or of gentlemen brandishing the sword and helmet,—theatrical subjects, as I afterwards discovered. Iskar was sitting before his desk, and had his face from me. As I approached, my awe was doubled at his performance, for I beheld Corelli's solos. I had heard of those from Davy. Another desk was also near him, and a second violin-case stood upon the floor. I asked him very modestly whether they were mine. He replied, without regarding me, "That sheet of paper has your exercise upon it, and if you cannot play it, you are to look in Marenthal's Prolusion, which is in the bureau under the desk. You are to take all these things into your own room."
There was something in the tones of the blouse—he was yet in blouse—that irritated me intensely. His voice was defined as that of his violin, and to the full as frosty. I was only too happy to retire. Then, sitting upon my own bed, I examined the exercise. It was drearily indistinct,—a copy, and I could make nothing of it. The mere Germanisms of the novel rests and signs appalled me. I could neither handle the violin nor steady the bow; but I had carefully borne in mind the methods I had observed when I had had opportunity, and I stooped to take this child of music from its cradle. It was no more mine own than I had expected; an awkward bulky frame it had, and I did not feel to love it nor to bring it to my heart. Something must be done, I felt, and I returned to the organ-room. I found the Prolusion, as Iskar said,—an awfully Faustish tome, with rusty clasps, the letters worn off the back. I was in doom certainly. It was close black national type, and I pored and bored myself over it,—leaf after leaf,—until, blissfully, I arrived at the very exercise prepared for me. It was presented in illustration, and there were saw-like enunciations of every step; but half the words were unknown to me, and I grew rigid with despair. "Oh!" I cried aloud, "if some one would only tell me! if Davy were only here! if Lenhart Davy knew!" Still I slackened not in my most laughable labor, endeavoring to interpret such words as I could not translate by their connection with others I did know, by their look and make,—their euphony. I was vocalizing them very loud, and had made out already the first position, when a rattle of the closet lock turned me all over cold. I listened, it came again; a tremendous "So!" followed, and the door, opening, displayed Aronach himself in the glories of a morning-gown. How could he have got in there, and how have come out upon me so suddenly without any warning? and above all, how would he behave to me, finding me so ignorant? I believe that on account of my very ignorance I found favor in his sight,—he truly wise; for, merely alluding to my condition in this form, "Thou hast shown thyself faithful, only keep thy faith," he bade me bring my traps in there, and assured me—merely by his aspect—that he would clear every stone from my path.
When I returned he was standing between the organ and the window: a grander picture could not be perpetrated of the life-long laboring and, for love's sake, aspiring artist. His furrowed forehead was clear as rutted snow in the serene of sunlight as he appeared then; and through all the sternness with which he spoke I discerned the gentleness of art's impression. And after the most careful initiation into the simplest mechanical process, he dismissed me to work alone, nor did I relax from that one exercise for a week.
But a great deal chanced in that week besides. We spent each day alike, except Sunday. On other days we breakfasted very soon after it was light, on milk porridge, or bread and coffee. But sometimes Aronach would breakfast alone in his cave, which was that very closet I mentioned, and in which the day must have been developed about as decidedly as beneath the ground. However, he had his lamp in there, and his private escritoire, besides all kinds of books and papers, that were seldom produced in our presence, and then only one at a time.
The kitten's basket was there too, and there were shelves upon shelves, containing napery and all sorts of oddities, that had their nest there after being hatched in crannies of the old man's brain. The first time I took a peep I discerned my own violin, carefully enough housed, but quite above my reach. I fumed a little, of course, but did not betray myself; and it was well I did not, as Iskar and little Starwood both practised on common fiddles scraping could not rasp, nor inexperience injure.