The choral welcome, meantime, had pealed from the lower gallery, and another had advanced and retired from the ranks beneath. My companion was intently gazing, not at the maiden troop, but at the deep festoons above us. He seemed to see nothing there though, and the very position of his hands, resting upon each other and entirely relaxed, bore witness to the languor of his abstraction. It occurred to me how very cool they were, both those who distributed, and those who received the medals; I felt there was an absence of the strict romance, if I may so name it, I had expected when I entered; for as we sat, and whence we saw, all was ideal to the sight, and the sense was even lost in the spiritual appreciation of an exact proportionateness to the occasion. Yet the silence alternating with the rising and abating voices, the harmony of the coloring and shadowing, the dim rustle of the green festoons, the waftures of woody and blossomy fragrance, the indoor forest feeling, so fresh and wild,—all should have stood me in stead, perhaps, of the needless enthusiasm I should have looked for in such a meeting, or have witnessed without surprise. I was not wise enough at that time to define the precise degree and kind of enthusiasm I should have required to content me, but perhaps it would be impossible even now for any degree to content me, or for any kind not to find favor in my eyes, if natural and spontaneously betrayed. The want I felt, however, was just a twilight preparation of the faculties for the scene that followed.
The last silver medal had been carried from the table, the last white-robed nymph had sought her seat with the ribbon streaking her drapery, when both the choral forces rose and sang together the welcome in more exciting fulness. And then they all sat down, and a murmur of voices and motion began to roll on all sides, as if some new part were to be played over.
The band arose on either side, and after a short, deferential pause, as if calling attention to something, commenced with perfect precision Weber's "Jubel" overture.[15] It was my companion who told me its name, whispering it into my ear; and I listened eagerly, having heard of its author in every key of praise.
I did not much care for the effect, though it was as cool as needed to be after those cool proceedings. I dearly wanted to ask him whether he loved it; but it was unnecessary, for I could see it was even nothing to him by his face. He seemed passing judgment proudly, furtively, on all that chanced around him, and I could not but feel that he searched all, governed all with his eye from that obscure corner.
Immediately on the conclusion of the overture several professors left the table and clustered round the pianoforte. One opened it, and then Milans-André approached, and waving his creamy gloves, unclothed his hands, and stood at the front of the platform. Some boisterous shouts arose,—they began near his station, and were imitated from the middle benches; but there was an undemonstrative coldness even in these; they seemed from the head, not the heart, as one might say. The artist did not appear distressed,—indeed, he looked too classically self-reliant to require encouragement.
He was what might be called extremely handsome. There was a largeness about his features that would have told well in a bust,—they were perfectly finished; also a Phidias could not have planed another polish on the most oval nostril, a Canova could not have pumiced unparted lips to more appropriate curve. His eyes were too far for me to search, but I did not long to come at their full expression. He stood elegantly, while the plaudits made their way among the muffling leaves, and therein went to sleep; the golden flowers of the lindens hung down withering, smitten by the terror of his presence! My companion—to my surprise, my bewilderment even—applauded also, but, as it were, mechanically; he stood beside me on that topmost tier applauding, but his eyes were still fixed upon the roof. I heard his voice among the others, and it was just at that instant that some one, and that some one in a professor's robe, a gentleman of sage demeanor, started from one of the lower tiers and looked back suddenly at him; as suddenly fired, flushed, lighted, all over his face, wise and grave as it was. He saw not, still rapt, still looking upwards; but I saw and felt,—felt certain of the impressions received. A sort of whisper crept along the tier,—a portentous thrill; one and another, all turned, and before I could gather with my glance who had left them, several seats were voided beneath us.
In a few minutes I heard a long and silver thundering chord. I knew it was the reveille of the wonderful Milans-André; but so many persons were standing and running that I could not see, and could scarcely hear. Soon all must have heard less. As the keys continued to flash in unmitigated splendor, a rushing noise seemed arising also from the floor to the ceiling; it was, indeed, an earnest of my own pent-up enthusiasm that could not be repressed, for I found myself shouting, hurrahing beneath my breath, as all did around me. I was not mistaken; some one opened the door by which we had entered, gustily, violently, and drew my companion away. Before I thought of losing him, he was gone,—I knew not whether led or carried; I knew not whether aroused or in the midst of his high abstraction.
I pressed downwards, climbing over the benches, driving my way among those who stood, that I might see all as well as feel; but at length I stood upon a seat and beheld what was worth beholding, is bright to remember; but oh, how hopeless to record! Just so might a painter dream to pour upon his canvas an extreme effect of sunset,—those gorgeous effusions of golden flame and blinding roses that are dashed into dazzling mist before our hearts have gathered them to us, have made them, in beauty so blazingly serene, our own.
The sound of the keys, so brilliant, grew dulled as by a tempest voice in distance; not alone the hurrahs, the vivas, but the stir, the crash of the dividing multitude. And before almost I could believe it, I beheld moving through the cloven crowd that slight and unembarrassed form; but he seemed alone to move as if urged by some potent necessity, for his head was carried loftily, and there was not the shadow of a smile upon his face.
It was evident that the people, between pressing and thronging, were determined to conduct him to the platform; and it struck me, from his hasty step and slightly troubled air, that he longed to reach it, for calm to be restored. Milans-André, meantime,—will it be believed?—continued playing, and scarcely raised his eyes as my conductor at length mounted the steps, and seemed to my sight to shrink among those who now stood about him. But it was hopeless to restore the calm. I knew that from the first. He had no sooner trodden the elevation than a burst of joyous welcome that drowned the keys, that drenched the very ear, forced the pianist to quit his place. No one looked at him of young or old, except those who had confronted him at the table. They surrounded him, some with smiles and eager questions; some with provoking gravity. The other was left alone to stem, as it were, that tide of deafening acclaim; he slightly compressed his lip, made a slight motion forwards; he lifted his hand with the slight deprecation that modesty or pride might have suggested alike,—still hopelessly. The arrears of enthusiasm demanded to be paid with interest; the trampings, the shower-like claps, the shouts, only deepened, widened tenfold: the multitude became a mob, and frantic,—but with a glorious zeal! Some tore handfuls of the green adorning the pillars, and passing it forward, it was strewn on the steps. From the galleries hung the excited children, girls and boys, and dividing their bouquets, rained the roses upon his head, that floated, crimson and pink and pearly, to the green floor beneath his feet. With a sort of delicate desperation he shook his hair from those dropped flowers, and for one instant hid his face; the next, flung down his hands, and smiled a flashing smile,—so that, from lip to brow, it was as if some sunbeam fluttered in the cage of a rosy cloud, smiling above, below, and everywhere it seemed,—ran round the group of professors to the piano, and without seating himself, without prelude, began a low and hymn-like melody.