4th.—Created a revolution in the household to-day; persuaded Flora to have the Erard "grand" moved into a great old barn of a room seldom used, where one can write and practise without interruption. She had intended to give up one of her prettiest rooms to me; but I've taken a fancy to this one, which will be too desolate to tempt any one to share my solitude.
George is charmed to have me establish myself at such a distance from the rest of the family. He at once ordered in orange-trees and ivies to adorn my dungeon—a delightful thought; but the dreary waste is fast becoming a blossoming oasis. I am writing now by the jalousied window, half listening to the dip of oars as the gondolas go lazily by in the afternoon light.
A glorious piano-tuning this morning, much to Flora's disgust. "Let me send to Lupi's for a tuner, dear," she entreated, as I produced fork and key from the depths of a show work-basket. "It looks so masculine."
"It should be feminine to bring harmony out of discord," I answered. "No piano of mine shall be intrusted to a hireling."
I talked and tuned, tuned and talked—not simultaneously but in strata—and had possessed myself of the interior history of the Vane family by the time the piano answered my searching ears harmoniously.
Mary Terence was the daughter of a clever author, of some pretensions to literary fame, but better known in Boston as a brilliant talker. She was left an orphan at nineteen, poor and unprotected. Vane, who had been one of the habitués of her father's house, admired her sweet devotion to the crotchety old man. She was a Catholic, too; and though Nicholas never cared much for his religion himself, he was always fond of seeing other people practise it, as I remember painfully. But, however it happened, through religion or love, or caprice, or whatever, he married the young thing, and fancies there was never seen her equal.
The piano tuned, I betook myself to practising Variations Sérieuses, and Saran's variations in the same style, but founded on a theme far nobler than the one Mendelssohn has taken. Saran is capable of great things, but will probably fail to accomplish them, as this period of our century especially discourages development. To excite hopes and disappoint them appears to be the summit of youthful ambition, at least in the musical world.
I was feeling very happy at the piano; keys cool and smooth; nerves impressionable but not impressed; my ivy-garnished dungeon excellent in its acoustic effects; Flora, in a senseless sort of way, a sympathetic listener. Now and then a servant came to her for orders, but her voice is one that harmonizes with stillness. Flora is surely the sweetest, calmest, most beautiful simpleton I have ever known.
Mendelssohn and Saran having tired me, Chopin came to the rescue—mazurkas, preludes, nocturnes. Why did I play so well? Why was that scherzo on the music-desk, and why do its leaves turn so inconveniently? As I came within two bars of the close of the third page, a hand turned it deftly. I knew the hand of old, and its rare faculty for turning music well. With difficulty I repressed a start of surprise, for I had thought myself alone with Flora. But the agony of recollection quivered in my nerves, impressed now as well as impressionable. I had not believed myself susceptible of such emotion, or capable of such repression of feeling, if once aroused.
The scherzo ended, I paused, but for a moment could not summon courage to break the silence that followed. At last I turned to leave the piano. Vane was sitting behind me on the right. His lips parted painfully in a smile as he greeted me. Strange! What was it to either of us but a glance into a past we would both destroy if that were possible; a furtive peep into a magic mirror we thought broken long ago.