The Choir Invisible [46]
a real living spinet. I even know another old maid now who is nothing but an old music book--long ago sung through, learned by heart, and laid aside: in a faded, wrinkled binding--yellowed paper stained by tears--and haunted by an odour of rose-petals, crushed between the leaves of memory: a genuine very thin and stiff collection of the rarest original songs--not songs without words, but songs without sounds--the ballads of an undiscovered heart, the hymns of an unanswered spirit."
After a pause during which neither of the men spoke, the parson went on:
"All Ireland--it is a harp! We know what Scotland is. John," he exclaimed, suddenly turning toward the dark figure lying just inside the shadow, "you are a discord of the bagpipe and the harp: there's the trouble with you. Sometimes I can hear the harp alone in you, and then I like you; but when the bagpipe begins, you are worse than a big bumblebee with a bad cold."
"I know it," said John sorrowfully. "My only hope is that the harp will outlast the bee."
"At least that was a chord finely struck," said the parson warmly. After another silence he went on.
"Martin Luther--he was a cathedral organ. And so it goes. And so the whole past sounds to me: it is the music of the world: it is the vast choir of the ever-living dead." He gazed dreamily up at the heavens: "Plato! he is the music of the stars."
After a little while, bending over and looking at the earth and speaking in a tone of unconscious humility, he added:
"The most that we can do is to begin a strain that will swell the general volume and last on after we have perished. As for me, when I am gone, I should like the memory of my life to give out the sound of a flute."
He slipped his hand softly into the breastpocket of his coat and more softly drew something out.
"Would you like a little music?" he asked shyly, his cold beautiful face all at once taking on an expression of angelic sweetness.
John quickly reached out and caught his hand in a long, crushing grip: he knew this was the last proof the parson could ever have given him that he loved him. And then as he lay back on his pillow, he turned his face back into the dark cabin.
Out upon the stillness of the night floated the parson's passion-- silver-clear, but in an undertone of such peace, of such immortal gentleness. It was as though the very beams of the far-off serenest moon, falling upon his flute and dropping down into its interior through its little round openings, were by his touch shorn of all their lustre, their softness, their celestial energy, and made to reissue as music. It was as though his flute had been stuffed with frozen Alpine blossoms and these had been melted away by the passionate breath of his soul into the coldest invisible flowers of sound. At last, as though all these blossoms in his flute had been used up--blown out upon the warm, moon-lit air as the snow-white fragrances of the ear--the parson buried his face softly upon his elbow which rested on the back of his chair. And neither man spoke again. XIII
WHEN Mrs. Falconer had drawn near John's hut on the morning of his misfortune, it was past noon despite all her anxious, sorrowful haste to reach him. His wounds had been dressed. The crowd of people that had gathered about his cabin were gone back to their occupations or their homes--except a group that sat on the roots of a green tree several yards from his door. Some of these were old wilderness folk living near by who had offered to nurse him and otherwise to care for his comforts and needs. The affair furnished them that renewed interest in themselves which is so liable to revisit us when we have escaped a fellow-creature's suffering but can relate good things about ourselves in like risks and dangers; and they were drawing out their reminiscences now with unconscious gratitude for so excellent an opportunity befalling them in these peaceful unadventurous days. Several of John's boys lay in the grass and hung upon these narratives. Now and then they cast awe-stricken glances at his door which had
After a pause during which neither of the men spoke, the parson went on:
"All Ireland--it is a harp! We know what Scotland is. John," he exclaimed, suddenly turning toward the dark figure lying just inside the shadow, "you are a discord of the bagpipe and the harp: there's the trouble with you. Sometimes I can hear the harp alone in you, and then I like you; but when the bagpipe begins, you are worse than a big bumblebee with a bad cold."
"I know it," said John sorrowfully. "My only hope is that the harp will outlast the bee."
"At least that was a chord finely struck," said the parson warmly. After another silence he went on.
"Martin Luther--he was a cathedral organ. And so it goes. And so the whole past sounds to me: it is the music of the world: it is the vast choir of the ever-living dead." He gazed dreamily up at the heavens: "Plato! he is the music of the stars."
After a little while, bending over and looking at the earth and speaking in a tone of unconscious humility, he added:
"The most that we can do is to begin a strain that will swell the general volume and last on after we have perished. As for me, when I am gone, I should like the memory of my life to give out the sound of a flute."
He slipped his hand softly into the breastpocket of his coat and more softly drew something out.
"Would you like a little music?" he asked shyly, his cold beautiful face all at once taking on an expression of angelic sweetness.
John quickly reached out and caught his hand in a long, crushing grip: he knew this was the last proof the parson could ever have given him that he loved him. And then as he lay back on his pillow, he turned his face back into the dark cabin.
Out upon the stillness of the night floated the parson's passion-- silver-clear, but in an undertone of such peace, of such immortal gentleness. It was as though the very beams of the far-off serenest moon, falling upon his flute and dropping down into its interior through its little round openings, were by his touch shorn of all their lustre, their softness, their celestial energy, and made to reissue as music. It was as though his flute had been stuffed with frozen Alpine blossoms and these had been melted away by the passionate breath of his soul into the coldest invisible flowers of sound. At last, as though all these blossoms in his flute had been used up--blown out upon the warm, moon-lit air as the snow-white fragrances of the ear--the parson buried his face softly upon his elbow which rested on the back of his chair. And neither man spoke again. XIII
WHEN Mrs. Falconer had drawn near John's hut on the morning of his misfortune, it was past noon despite all her anxious, sorrowful haste to reach him. His wounds had been dressed. The crowd of people that had gathered about his cabin were gone back to their occupations or their homes--except a group that sat on the roots of a green tree several yards from his door. Some of these were old wilderness folk living near by who had offered to nurse him and otherwise to care for his comforts and needs. The affair furnished them that renewed interest in themselves which is so liable to revisit us when we have escaped a fellow-creature's suffering but can relate good things about ourselves in like risks and dangers; and they were drawing out their reminiscences now with unconscious gratitude for so excellent an opportunity befalling them in these peaceful unadventurous days. Several of John's boys lay in the grass and hung upon these narratives. Now and then they cast awe-stricken glances at his door which had