Heliobas smiled,—there was a little touch of satire in his smile.
"Do you see that gentleman?" he said, in a low tone, pointing out by a gesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly in a stall not very far from where they themselves sat,—"He is the musical critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He has not stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate's performance,—and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly distasteful to him! He has merely written one line down in his note-book,—it is most probably to the effect that the 'Spanish fiddler met with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating public!'"
Alwyn laughed. "Not possible!"—and he eyed the impassive individual in question with a certain compassionate amusement,—"Why, if he cannot admire such a magnificent artist as Sarasate, what is there in the world that WILL rouse his admiration!"
"Nothing!" rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling humorously as he spoke—"Nothing,—unless it is his own perspicuity! Nil admirari is the critic's motto. The modern 'Zabastes' must always be careful to impress his readers in the first place with his personal superiority to all men and all things,—and the musical Oracle yonder will no doubt be clever enough to make his report of Sarasate in such a manner as to suggest the idea that he could play the violin much better himself, if he only cared to try!"
"Ass!" said Alwyn under his breath—"One would like to shake him out of his absurd self-complacency!"
Heliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively:
"My dear fellow, he would only bray!—and the braying of an ass is not euphonious! No!—you might as well shake a dry clothes-prop and expect it to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic, and expect him to be enthusiastic! The worst of it is, these men are not REALLY musical,—they perhaps know a little of the grammar and technique of the thing, but they cannot understand its full eloquence. In the presence of a genius like Pablo de Sarasate they are more or less perplexed,—it is as though you ask them to describe in set, cold terms the counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind's symphony to the trees,—the great ocean's sonata to the shore, or the delicate madrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell-blossoms to the tinkling fall of April rain. The man is too great for them—he is a blazing star that dazzles and confounds their sight—and, after the manner of their craft, they abuse what they can't understand. Music is distinctly the language of the emotions,—and they have no emotion. They therefore generally prefer Joachim,—the good, stolid Joachim, who so delights all the dreary old spinsters and dowagers who nod over their knitting-needles at the 'Monday Popular' concerts, and fancy themselves lovers of the 'classical' in music. Sarasate appeals to those who have loved, and thought, and suffered—those who have climbed the heights of passion and wrung out the depths of pain,—and therefore the PEOPLE, taken en masse, as, for instance, in this crowded hall, instinctively respond to his magic touch. And why?—Because the greater majority of human beings are full of the deepest and most passionate feelings, not as yet having been 'educated' OUT of them!"
Here the orchestra commenced Liszt's "Preludes"—and all conversation ceased. Afterwards Sarasate came again to bestow upon his eager admirers another saving grace of sound, in the shape of the famous Mendelssohn Concerto, which he performed with such fiery ardor, tenderness, purity of tone, and marvellous execution that many listeners held their breath for sheer amazement and delighted awe. Anything approaching the beauty of his rendering of the final "Allegro" Alwyn had never heard,—and indeed it is probable none WILL ever hear a more poetical, more exquisite SINGING OF THOUGHT than this matchless example of Sarasate's genius and power. Who would not warm to the brightness and delicacy of those delicious rippling tones, that seemed to leap from the strings alive like sparks of fire—the dainty, tripping ease of the arpeggi, that float from the bow with the grace of rainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air,—the brilliant runs, that glide and glitter up and down like chattering brooks sparkling among violets and meadow-sweet,—the lovely softer notes, that here and there sigh between the varied harmonies with the dreamy passion of lovers who part, only to meet again in a rush of eager joy!—Alwyn sat absorbed and spellbound; he forgot the passing of time,—he forgot even the presence of Heliobas,—he could only listen, and gratefully drink in every drop of sweetness that was so lavishly poured upon him from such a glorious sky of sunlit sound.
Presently, toward the end of the performance, a curious thing happened. Sarasate had appeared to play the last piece set down for him,—a composition of his own, entitled "Zigeunerweisen." A gypsy song, or medley of gypsy songs, it would be, thought Alwyn, glancing at his programme,—then, looking towards the artist, who stood with lifted bow like another Prospero, prepared to summon forth the Ariel of music at a touch, he saw that the dark Spanish eyes of the maestro were fixed full upon him, with, as he then fancied, a strange, penetrating smile in their fiery depths. One instant.. and a weird lament came sobbing from the smitten violin,—a wildly beautiful despair was wordlessly proclaimed, . . a melody that went straight to the heart and made it ache, and burn, and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion and desire! The solemn, yet unfettered, grace of its rhythmic respiration suggested to Alwyn, first darkness,—then twilight—then the gradual far-glimmering of a silvery dawn,—till out of the shuddering notes there seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool whiteness, splendid and mystical,—a whiteness that from shapeless, fleecy mist took gradual form and substance, … the great concert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people, appeared to fade away like vanishing smoke,—and lo!—before the poet's entranced gaze there rose up a wondrous vision of stately architectural grandeur,—a vision of snowy columns and lofty arches, upon which fell a shimmering play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun through stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise,—a tremulous sound of voices floated aloft, singing, "Kyrie Eleison!—Kyrie Eleison!"—and the murmuring undertone of the organ shook the still air with deep vibrations of holy tune. Everywhere peace,—everywhere purity! everywhere that spacious whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal purple, gold, and ardent crimson,—and in the midst of all,—O dearest tenderness!—O fairest glory!—a face, shining forth like a star in a cloud!—a face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet,—a golden head, above which the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant ring!
"EDRIS!"—The chaste name breathed itself silently in Alwyn's thoughts,—silently and yet with all the passion of a lover's prayer! How was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus distinctly NOW,—now, when the violin-music wept its wildest tears—now when love, love, love, seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the low, pulsating melody of the marvellous "Zigeunerweisen," a melody which, despite its name, had revealed to one listener, at any rate, nothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over forest and moorland,—but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was his life! How had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of frozen snow?—what was his mission there?—and why, when the picture slowly faded, did it still haunt his memory invitingly,—persuasively,—nay, almost commandingly?