Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

Of course he went through the pantomimic form of inquiring how it was that she was alone—this was, she knew, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching them and suspect an assignation. The idea of anyone seriously fancying that Dr. Burney's daughter would have an assignation with Signor Rauzzini in such a place and in the midst of such a company! But Signor Rauzzini came from a land of intrigue, and his experience of England led him to believe that he had come to another; and so he made those gestures of inquiry, and she gave him a few words of explanation, so that no one might suspect! But, for that matter, their chairs were in the least conspicuous place in the room, and the shadow of the heavy hangings of a window fell half across them both.

“And we have not met for months,” said he in French.

“Nay, have you forgotten our evening at the Pantheon?” she asked.

“Forgotten it? But that is months ago—ages. And it was all unfinished—broken off when at its best—mutilated. That hour we had! Oh, was it a melody suddenly interrupted when it was approaching its best? Was it a poem snatched away by some ruthless hand just when we had begun a deathless line?”

“What I remember best is your singing of 'Waft her.' I am not quite sure that I have yet returned to the earth from those regions whither I felt myself wafted. Are you conscious of having any part in Dido into which you can throw yourself with the same spirit?”

“Dido! pah! Dido is a paltry playhouse—Maestro Handel's work is a Sistine Chapel—ah, more—more—a noble cathedral. When other composers built their garden houses in imitation of Greek temples, he spent all his time raising cathedrals. His genius is his own—mighty—overpowering! Every time I approach the great maestro I feel that I should put off my shoes from my feet. It is holy ground—it is—ah, mademoiselle, it was you who led me to chatter of myself and my music when we were last together, and I had no wish to do so; I meant to talk of yourself alone, but we had parted before I had the chance again. I have been wondering ever since if such a chance would return—if I had not thrown it away; and now you have lured me once more toward the golden net of music; but I have seen it spread: I will not step into it. I want to talk to you of love—love and you—and—me.”

He had restrained his voice so that it was no more than a whisper, and he had chastened his gestures until he seemed rigid. Fanny knew that even if their chairs had not been far away from the next that were occupied, his words could reach no ears but her own; but the effort that he was making to restrain his gestures—oh, was it not more significant to any observant eye than his most florid action would have been? With bent head she was conscious of the quivering of the muscles of his clenched hands—of the tremulous earnestness of his expressive face. Surely everyone who so much as glanced at him would know what was the subject of his discourse—and hers—hers—but what should hers be? What answer was she to make to such a man whispering such a word as love?

“I am afraid,” she said. “You make me afraid. Is this the place? Is this the time? Am I the one?”

“Every place is the place—every time is the time—and you—you are the only one,” said he, becoming more fervent every moment. “If you and I were alone—but we are alone—our love isolates us—we are alone in the splendid isolation of our love. What are these people who are about us? They are nothing to us—less than nothing, What are the people in a church to the devout one who enters and keeps his eyes fixed upon the lovely face of the saint to whom he prays. The saint and he are in communion together, and their communion isolates them though the church is crowded? I keep my eyes of devotion upon your face, my beautiful saint, and I am rapt with the glory of this hour—we are carried away on the wings of our love until the world is too far beneath us to be seen—only the heaven is revealed to us—to me—I look into your face and I have a glimpse of heaven itself! Ah, gentle saint, you will not deny me a response—one word—only lift up your eyes—let our eyes meet and it will be as if our lips had met. I am but a mortal, but I feel, gazing into the face of my saint, as if I were immortal—immortal and crossing the threshold of the heaven that is hers—I feel that we are equal——”

She drew in her breath—the sound was something like a gasp—the gasp of one who has been swept away into the midst of a swirling sea and made breathless. She had been swept away on the amazing flood of his words; it was not until he had said that word “equal” that she felt herself swirled into the air once more, so to speak, and gave that gasp for breath: he, too, was breathless after his long and fervid outburst, repressed as to tone, but sounding therefore all the more passionate. Her gasp sounded like a sigh; his like a sob.