A Nest of Linnets

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“I feel pleased that you agree with me,” she said. “I have no patience with such people as one meets at times—men who are ever ready to decry the art which they themselves practise. I have known painters complain bitterly that Heaven had not made them poets, and I have known poets cry out against the fate that had not created them wits. Here is our friend Mr. Sheridan, who is both a poet and a wit, and yet he is ready to complain that Heaven has not made him a successful lover as well.”

Young Mr. Sheridan cast upon the lady a reproachful glance, and went off with a bow.

Mrs. Abington made room for Tom on her sofa. She sent him an invitation from her eyes. It was a small sofa; but he was entirely free from self-consciousness, and therefore he did not know what it was to be shy. He seated himself by her side. A fold of her brocade flowed over his feet. This did not embarrass him in the least.

He waited for her to talk. It did not occur to him that he should make the attempt to be agreeable to her.

“’Twas a pretty conceit that of Mr. Sheridan’s,” said she musingly. “But I am convinced that ’tis true. He said that you had buried your heart into your violin, Mr. Linley. Yes, I am sure that that is the truth; for were it otherwise how could the people who have heard you play declare, as some have done to me, that when you play ’tis as if you were drawing your bow across your heart-strings?”

“You have heard people say that?” he cried, leaning forward in eagerness; he had allowed the sofa to support his shoulders up to this point. “You have met some who heard me play? But I have only returned from Italy a few days. I have only played once in Bath.”

“You can only be upheld when you play in public by the thought that in every audience there are some persons—few though they may be, still they are there—who are capable of appreciating your playing—who are capable of receiving the impressions which you seek to transfer to them.”

He looked at her with wide eyes, surprise, admiration, in his gaze.

“I never begin to play without such a thought,” he cried. “That, as you say, is the thought that upholds me, that uplifts me, that supports me. I had it first from my dear Maestro. He used to urge us daily, ‘Play your best at all times; even though you fancy you are alone in the room, be assured that the true musician can never be alone. Who can tell what an audience the spirit world gives to him? He must remember that his playing is not merely a distraction for the crowd in the concert-room, it is an act of devotion—an act of worship.’ That is what the Maestro said, and every day I recall his words.”

“They are words which no true artist should forget,” said she. “The sentiment which they convey should be the foundation of every art. We cannot all build cathedrals to the glory of God, but it is in the power of every true artist to raise a shrine—perhaps it is only a humble one of lath and plaster, but it is still a sacred place if one puts one’s heart into it. That reflection is a dear consolation to me, Mr. Linley, when I reflect sometimes that I am only an actress.”