Oh! that you had heard the lull, like a dream dying, dissolving from the awakening brain,—the deep and tremendous, yet living and breathing stillness,—that sank upon each pulse of that enthusiasm raised and fanned by him, and by him absorbed and hidden to brood and be at rest!
I know not which I felt the most, the passion of that almost bursting heart of silence, as it were, rolled together into a purple bud from its noon-day efflorescence by the power that had alone been able to unsheathe its glories,—or that stealing, creeping People's Song, that in few and simple chords, beneath one slender, tender pair of hands, held bound, as it were, and condensed in one voice the voice of myriads. For myself, I writhed with bliss, I was petrified into desolation by delight; but I was not singular on that occasion, for those around me seemed alone to live, to breathe, that they might receive and retain those few precious golden notes, and learn those glorious lineaments, so pale, so radiant with the suddenly starting hectic, as his hands still stirred the keys to a fiercer inward harmony than that they veiled by touch.
It was not long, that holy People's Song; I scarcely think it lasted five minutes,—certainly not more; but the effect may be better conceived, and the power of the player appreciated, when I say not one note was lost: each sounded, rang almost hollow, in the intense pervading silence.
"It is over," I thought, as he raised those slender hands, after a rich reverberating pause on the final chord, swelling with dim arpeggios on the harmony as into the extreme of vaulting distance,—"it is over; and they will make that dreadful noise unless he plays again." Never have I been so mistaken: but how could I anticipate aught of him? For as he moved he fixed his eyes upon the audience, so that each individual must have felt the glance within his soul,—so seemed to feel it; for it expressed a command sheathed in a supplication, unearthly, irresistible, that the applause should not be renewed.
There was perfect stillness, and he turned to Milans-André and spoke. Every one beneath the roof must have heard his words, for they were distinct as authoritatively serene. "Will you be so good as to resume your seat?" And as if swayed by some angel power,—such as drove the ass of Balaam to the wall,—the imperial pianist sat down, flushed and rather ruffled, but with a certain pomp it was trying to me to witness, and re-commenced the concerto which had been so opportunely interrupted. Attention seemed restored, so far as the ear of the multitude was concerned; but every eye wandered to him who now stood behind the player and turned the leaves of the composition under present interpretation. He seemed attentive enough,—not the slightest motion of his features betrayed an unsettled thought. His eyes were bent proudly, but calmly, upon the page; the rose light had faded from his cheek as the sunset flows from heaven into eternity,—but how did he feel? Hopeless to record, because hopeless to imagine. Perhaps nothing; the triumph so short but bright had no doubt become such phantasm as an unnoticeable yesterday to one whose future is fraught with expectation.
The concerto was long and elaborately handled. I felt I really should have admired it, have been thereby instructed, had not he been there. But there is something grotesque in talent when genius, even in repose, is by. It is as the splendor of a festive illumination when the sun is rising upon the city; that brightness of the night turns pale and sick, while the celestial darkness is passing away into day. There was an oppression upon all that I heard, for something different had unprepared me for anything, everything, except something else like itself. The committee were again at the table, and when I grew weary of the second movement, I looked for my master, and found him exactly opposite, but certainly not conscious of me. His beard was delightfully trimmed, and his ink-black eyebrows were just as usual; but I had never seen such an expression as that with which he regarded the one. It was as if a stone had rolled from his heart, and it had begun to beat like a child's; it was as if his youth were renewed, like the eagle's; it was as if he were drinking, silently but deeply, celestial knowledge from those younger heavenly eyes. "Does he love him so well, then?" thought I. Oh that I had known it, Aronach, for then I should have loved you, have found you out! But of course you don't think we are worthy to partake such feeling, and I don't know but that you are right to keep it from us. "Would that concerto never be over?" was my next surmise,—it was about the longest process of exhaustion to which I had ever been subjected. As for me, I yawned until I was dreadfully ashamed; but when I bethought myself to look round, lo! there were five or six just out of yawns as well, and a few who had passed that stage and closed their eyes. It never struck me as unconscionable that we should tire, when we might gaze upon the face of him who had shown himself ready to control us all; indeed, I do believe that had there been nothing going on, no concerto, no Milans-André, but that he had stood there silent, just as calm and still,—we should never have wearied the whole day long of feeding upon the voiceless presence, the harmony unresolved. But do you not know, oh, reader! the depression, the protracted suffering occasioned by the contemplation of any work of art—in music, in verse, in color, or in form—that is presented to us as model, that we coaxed to admire and enticed to appreciate, after we have accidentally but immediately beforehand experienced one of those ideal sensations that, whether awakened by Nature, by Genius, or by Passion suddenly elated, claim and condense our enthusiasm, so that we are not aware of its existence except on a renewal of that same sensation so suddenly dashed away from us as our sober self returns, and our world becomes again to-day, instead of that eternal something,—new, not vague, and hidden, but not lost?
CHAPTER XXIX.
So absorbed was I, either in review or revery, that I felt not when the concerto closed, and should have remained just where I was, had not the door swung quietly behind me. I saw who beckoned me from beyond it, and was instantly with him. He had divested himself of his cloak, and seemed ready rather to fly than to walk, so light was his frame, so elastic were his motions. He said, as soon as we were on the stairs:
"I should have come for you long ago, but I thought it was of no use until such time as I could find something you might eat; for, Carlomein, you must be very hungry. I have caused you to forego your dinner, and it was very hard of me; but if you will come with me, you shall have something good and see something pretty."