"Come even closer," she whispered; "for I daresay you are curious about those two."
If she had not been, as she was, most unusually beautiful to behold, I should dearly have grudged her that expression,—"those two;" but she constrained me by her sea-blue eyes to attentive silence.
"You see what a power has the greater one over the other. I have never seen him before, but my brother has told me about him; besides, here he is worshipped, and no wonder. The Cecilia School was founded by one Gratianos, a Bachist, about forty years ago, but not to succeed all at once, of course; the foundations were too poor, and the intentions too sublime. Louis Spohr's works brought us first into notice, because our students distinguished themselves at a certain festival four years ago. The founder died about that time, and had not Milans-André put himself in the way to be elected president, we should have gone to nothing; but he was rich, and wanted to be richer, so he made of us a speculation, and his name was sufficient to fill the classes from all parts of Europe. But we should have worse than gone to nothing soon, for we were slowly crystallizing into the same order as certain other musical orders that shall not be named, for perhaps you would not know what I mean by quoting them."
"I could, if you would explain to me, and I suppose you mean the music that is studied is not so select as it should be."
"That is quite enough to the purpose," she proceeded, with quite an adult fluency. "About three months ago we gave a great concert. The proceeds were for enlarging the premises, and we had a great crowd,—not in the room we used to-day, which is new, but in the large room we shall now keep for rehearsals. After the concert, which André conducted, and at which all the prodigies assisted, the conductor read us a letter. It was from one we had all heard of, and whom many of us loved secretly, and dared not openly, for reasons sad and many,—from the 'Young Composer,' as André satirically chose to call him, the Chevalier Seraphael."
"Oh!" I cried, "is that his name? What a wonderful name! It is like an angel to be called Seraphael."
"Hush! none of that now, because I shall not be able, perhaps, to tell you what I want you to know before you come here. Seraphael had just refused the post of Imperial pianist, which had been pressed upon him very earnestly; and the reason he gave for refusing it certainly stands alone in the annals of artistic policy,—that there was only one composer living to whom the office of Imperial pianist should be confided, and by whom it must be assumed,—Milans-André himself. Then it went on to insinuate that by exclusive exchange only could such an arrangement be effected; in short, that Milans-André, who must not go out of Austria, should be prevailed upon, in that case, to resign the humble position that detained him here, to the young composer himself. Now Milans-André did resign, as you may suppose; but, they say, not without a douceur, and we presented him with a gold beaker engraved with his own arms, when he retired,—that was not the douceur, mind; he had a benefit."
"That means a concert, with all the money it brought for himself. But why did you not see the Chevalier until to-day?"
"Some of ours did,—the band and the chorus; but I do not belong to either. You have no idea what it is to serve music under Milans-André; and when he came to-day, we all knew what it meant, who were wishing for a new life. It was a sort of electric snapping of our chains when he played to-day."
"With that Volkslied?"