USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 16
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"Why-it takes me out of myself, and my surroundings. It lures one on. Sometimes I can't keep away from the piano."
"Oh, so you play?" A bright understanding glance flashed from the keen eyes. "How many hours a day do you practice?"
"I'm afraid I don't work very hard; not more than an hour some days. But I get so much out of it-out of life. Art too, and books. And people. All kinds of people." (The Fine Art of Liking-I thought of that unexpectedly. I had not consciously practised it, but believed it to be one of my principles.)
"I can see that you like them. I imagine it's one of your strong points."
"But I haven't any strong points." One could not help but be honest with this sort of person. "I'm swayed by music, but I've never accomplished anything with it-I've been satisfied to be thought talented, but haven't done any work. It's the same with religion. I expected to be a church worker for life, but I-didn't succeed in that."
"How do you know you didn't succeed? Did you find. out you had not cared for it after all?"
"Not. that-and I worked. But"-and the thought evoked a dampness about the eyes, "I was supplanted; put out of it; and it has proved that I wasn't strong enough anyway. I seem to have hto endurance at all. It began with chilblains-"
But the doctor still sheered off from any contemplation of physi- cal woes.
"You say you like people. What people have you known, outside of your own circle?"
Before I knew it, I was describing the German immigrants, the New England farm-friends, even my own ancestors; the people in
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books, the members of my immediate family. My tongue was loos- ened, and the doctor listened intently.
"You have had a great deal in your lifetime, so far," she pro- nounced. "Plenty of opportunity to be strong, and to be contribu- tive, if you know what that means. You've lived in a sort of fairy wood and obeyed your impulses and the call of beauty in many forms. It is like the children who followed the Pied Piper, to put it very simply. You haven't been lured into a cave, it's true, and you have had far more freedom than one would expect. Everything has come to you easily, and you've been satisfied to let it come. But the great things-" and here I detected just a slight foreign accent-"are not achieved passively. Music, for instance, is not merely an escape, not just a means of forgetting what is sordid and disagreeable in our environment. Art is not; literature is not. They are elements of life and governed by the laws of life. You can't pick your soul out for special coddling and keep it inactive. Furthermore you may not turn back after defeat, not even admit defeat. Who can measure defeat, or success either?"
"And religion?"
"Religion is the highest. But that, too, is not separable from life, not a thing apart. All the other things, nature and art, lead up to it. Music will be merged in it; work will be deepened by it. The Spirit gives Life. You and I may not have the same faith or the same expression of faith, but we both live by what we believe."
Then she went on:
"I make a proposition to you. I want you to get out into a broader world. You have had much freedom, but even so, there are limits of circumstance and of experience. By getting out of those limits one makes one's life bigger. I want you to go to Europe for three years, and study there."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "How can I go?" My brain reeled.
"I think you can go. Your father and mother will do anything in the world to help you. Your aunt has told me about you; I know more of your history than I have seemed to know, and you have given me a still better clue. You must go this winter if you consent
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to the plan. You have always longed to study music in Germany, haven't you?"
"Always-for years and years! But-I don't want them to think that I'm willing to leave them except for the sake of bringing back some results to them. You see the others-my sister and brother, -- have been a help; they've made it worth while to do for them. They'll think I just want to get away!"
"Haven't you sometimes wanted to get away?"
"Yes, every once in a while, ever since I was very little. But not because I don't love my own home-it's an impulse; a sort of thing from outside one."
"No, from inside one. It is the impulse of progress; of climbing higher; 'leaving one's outgrown shell,' as your poet says. Remember, I'm not sending you for a cure; you must understand that. You are going for a definite purpose and going alone; you will study music to teach it; study it as an art, not an accomplishment. And you will study language. Also you will meet people-human beings who have a likeness to yourself-but are working out their lives in other con- ditions and with other backgrounds. Your own failures and short- comings must be left behind in America; your ailments you will forget. It's a serious thing that I am proposing to you. Will you promise me that if you go you will work to prepare youself for pay- ing back what you are taking from your parents by supporting yourself for three years-for as long a time as you will have spent in Europe? That should be the agreement."
I was ready to promise anything. Life had taken on a new and solemn meaning; it was beyond me to plan, even to realize so pro- found a purpose as this which was put before me. But I would set myself to the task.
I came out from the interview with a surprising sense of energy. Such a stupendous issue had been raised by the talk that mere physical ailments seemed unimportant. I had already begun to wonder what Archie would think about it. He had acquired the habit of running over from Cambridge in late afternoon for a walk or talk with me. We were no longer on the footing of the year be- fore; we had grown perceptibly since the week in Hadley. Through
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letters our intimacy had finally increased, and we understood each other far better. We had not discussed religion, nor books; the happenings of the moment presented more immediate interest. On the very afternoon of my talk with Dr. Zakrzewska, I poured out my enthusiasm. We were tramping along with unwonted rapidity, toward the hill on which the reservoir stand-pipe stood, command- ing a view of Brookline and the distant city, lit up by a winter sunset blazing in deep orange below late November grays.
"She's splendid. I had known of course that I wasn't accomplish- ing anything but even so, I was far more satisfied than I had any right to be, and what was more, I was getting peevish whenever any- thing I had set my heart on failed to turn out as I expected. I was just drifting along uselessly."
"Don't say that. One can't tell what one is accomplishing." His tone was quiet and steady. "What does she want you to do?"
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I faltered. "I-something that will be hard. I begin to see that already. It means going away, Archie-for three years. To Ger- many."
"Three-years?" His voice was low and unexcited, but his face whitened. I looked full at him, knowing now something I had not been able to guess.
"Yes, three years. Six years for that matter. We shall both be busy anyway, you know, that long. Two more years at college for you, and then studying law, and getting a practice, and so on. But years go so fast."
"I know it. We have got to show what we are, I suppose, in that time. It looks very long just now, though, doesn't it? Is it certain that you will go so far?"
"I imagine so. I think it has been talked over at home, although it came unexpectedly to me. I-she wants me to go in January."
"Then you have plans to make. We're not likely to sec each other many times more, I'm afraid."
As we returned to Cedar Square there was a crowd of home- coming people, hurrying along the sidewalks in the winter twi- light. We did not walk arm-in-arm; it was not improper in those days, but by daylight it would have been considered "marked," and
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had slight implications. Archie's hand was eager, nevertheless, at every crossing, every downward step. I looked around at him as we talked. He was a person to be noticed in his new and becoming overcoat, and the small moustache which he had cultivated since the beginning of the year.
Meanwhile plans matured with astonishing speed. The Bishop had taken kindly to Dr. Zakrzewska's proposition, and my days at Cedar Square were numbered. Archie asked to have the very last evening, suggesting that we go to hear Carmen sung. As the eve- ning approached, however, a weight descended on me. It occurred to me that we two had been moving toward a settled understanding. It might not be a spoken one, but within my own heart it was a certainty. Three years of separation would put a tremendous burden on our faithfulness, and so, to myself, I made an heroic resolution.
That night when the carriage drew up, I felt more than an ordinary thrill of anticipation. Archie arrived in evening clothes, white shirt-fronted and studded, with a large bunch of violets in a box.
I felt a wild desire to call off the European trip and see the City of Brussels sunk at her dock. I too had dressed myself in full regalia, and I was glad that I had even kept my handkerchief in orris powder, the nearest approach to perfumery for girls of my circle.
We listened to Bizet's enchanting opera that night, even forget- ting the name of the prima donna, in our delight at sitting there, the two of us, listening to the singing which was made for lovers' ears. And we were lovers that night, not losing a moment's delight, nor a single thrill of physical closeness.
But when I sank back into the carriage after it was all over I was forced to think of my resolution. Their consciences never let them alone, those ancient Puritan zealots, even when happiness was at its height, I thought. There was only a short time for my pro- posed declaration on the drive to Cedar Square.
"Our last evening together for months," whispered Archie.
"For years. It has been perfect tonight, more perfect than it can
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be ever again, perhaps. You see, it won't do for us to let it mean too much. I want you to feel free these next three years. You may see some girl you care for a great deal more than you do for me. It would be dreadful for you to feel that you are bound in any way-" But here I recoiled at my own daring. I was offering myself to him, instead of refusing him, when he had not even proposed.
"I don't mean that there's anything, really," I hastened to add. "Only just that we've had such a very happy time, and you might think that you mean more than you do. We're both pretty young, and we ought to feel free to fall in love with anyone we want to." I felt tremendously magnanimous and prudent.
"You can be as free as you like. I should never think of hamper- ing you," said the steady voice out of the darkness. He had drawn away a little.
"Oh, but it's not for my sake." I was horrified. "Please don't misunderstand me on this last night. You'll always be so much to me. And I hope you'll keep on writing till the very last minute."
His laugh expressed relief. "I will; it'll be a long correspond- ence, I guess, but you must, too."
"Of course. Only I'm going to be an old maid; somebody's jolly aunt."
We were climbing the hill at Cedar Square. The gravel crunched under our carriage wheels; the sharp cedar points stood out in black relief against the moonlight. The driver was paid and drove away. We stood shivering on the steps in the frosty air, tense with the keenness of parting, longing to give each other the seal of the fidelity on which we were counting. But we set it away from us with all the bravery of our young hearts. To me, with my Victorian romanticism, a kiss was a pledge, when it was exchanged by lovers.
"It's been so beautiful tonight. I'm glad we had it together. We won't forget it."
"Never. No matter what happens."
"Don't let anything happen!" Archie's voice was positive. He clung to the hand he held, and for an instant he wavered. Then with a last desperate "Good-bye" he ran down the steps.
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Music in Germany
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The City of Brussels lay at her dock, enveloped in thick fog. Two girls in brown ulsters, an older woman beside them, followed with wistful eyes the retreating figure of a cleric. He looked back once, and raised a hand in a parting salute; then disappeared in the drizzling rain.
The cables which bound the ship to the pier were loosened. The signal boomed from her mournful horn, and The City of Brussels, drawn by an impatient tug through ferry boats and vessels, was off to sea. Really off!
I was leaving my native land with few misgivings. I should be alone for two years, but my sister, Arria, and an older friend, Miss Hamilton, and I were to travel together before I was left in Leipzig. And then, armed with letters of introduction to some thirty dis- tinguished Germans, I should never be really alone. Besides I had more than two years work ahead of me, studying German and music.
I had scarcely prepared for a new life in the one short month be- fore sailing, and had certainly not carried out my noble resolution of a year before to study theology, and catch up with Archie's in- vestigations. Whether it was sheer cowardice, a fear of finding shal- lows in the stream of my own thinking, or the old willingness to identify the joy of living with life itself, was hard to tell. But the conviction had grown strong within me that Christianity was first of all a Way of Life in which dogma had its function and beauty its significance. It must be followed without delay or doubt with strength and youth as part of the equipment. I knew I had made confessions of faith, and taken on obligations which I had not un-
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derstood, but I realized, and found solace, in Dr. Zakrzewska's pro- found truth: one lives by what one at heart believes, whether trans- lated into a creed, or sub-consciously interpreted.
The ten-day voyage was not lacking in interest. A passenger who had kept to himself for the first three days, came into the cabin one evening while a concert was being arranged, and was presented to us by the Captain as "Leftenant" Bell of the Royal Navy, a man with a fine voice. I was importuned to play accompaniments, and found it good fun to follow the Englishman's rolling baritone. He sang Who is Sylvia? and Twickenham Ferry our old favorites with gusto.
That was the beginning of a pleasant acquaintance. He was a mine of information about London. I asked question after question, and betrayed my own book-learned familiarity with its topography.
"What parts of London do you want to see?" he asked.
"Oh, all kinds of Londons: the London of Dickens, of Thack- eray, of Trollope and Meredith, the London of St. James, the East End and the docks, and of course the Tower. I want to stroll along Piccadilly, buy things in Regent Street, drive in Hyde Park, go to the National Gallery, walk around Trafalgar Square, stand at Charing Cross, and hunt out corners like Tom-all-alone's and Mr. Venus's -- I'm sure one could find them-, and see the lodgings of the poets in Grub Street. Think of all the memories to be dug up! And I'd just like to look at Mr. Gladstone, and hear John Bright on Free Trade, and lunch on penny buns, and ride in hansoms, and watch Ellen Terry and Irving do Shakespeare, and go to afternoon service at Westminster Abbey because the choir sings so beautifully then, and look at the monuments, only I like living things better than dead ones, and hear Canon Farrar preach at St. Paul's." I paused from sheer lack of breath.
The Lieutenant broke his British calm.
"I swear, you know more about London than I do myself! I had no idea that American girls were so beautifully-educated and well-read. Pardon me, but aren't you an exception?"
This was inexcusable. The compliment passed unheeded as I flew to the defense of my compatriots.
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That made clear, I went on, "Besides, I need to hear more Eng- lish music. We hear mostly Church composers: Elvey and Barnby and Stainer and Dykes. Think what we owe to Dykes! Then you do such wonderful things of Purcell's, and the Messiah is sung more superbly in England than anywhere else. I hope I shall hear it."
He was alert at once.
"I've sung in that. But the last time we gave it in Windsor, where I live, I wasn't allowed to be in the chorus; that's one reason I made the trip to America."
I wondered what he meant. Later I was to know. We spent a good deal of time pacing the deck together, and when he would rest, stretched out in his steamer-chair, we discussed, not music alone, but favorite books and personal experiences. He was a retired naval officer of a Conservative family. He had little interest in politics beyond a strong disapproval of Parnell and a lack of patience with Ireland and Gladstone's actions in its favor. He had, like all British subjects, unbounded admiration for the Queen, and a supreme indifference to the affairs of other countries.
The day before we landed, the gray sky and sea gave place to a radiant day: a powdering of snow froze on the masts before dawn, and sparkled in brilliant sunshine. Then came a moonlight night, and we two sat on deck till late, which brought down a protest from Arria and Miss Hamilton. The lieutenant invited us to visit him at Windsor on a Sunday afternoon, so that we might hear Sir George Elvey play the organ at the Royal Chapel, and meet his sister.
"I'm sure we should love to come; I'll ask my sister and Miss Hamilton."
I hastened with all speed to the cabin. Alack! the invitation was received with coldness by the older lady.
"I certainly should not want to accept a proposal of that sort," she said firmly. "We know nothing whatever about this man. American girls unfortunately have the reputation of being easily taken in, and he probably just wants to flatter you. You might go to Windsor, and find there was no such person in the town. As to the talk of his being a naval knight, who knows whether there is
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such a thing, after all? I never heard of one, I must say." She seemed unnecessarily peevish.
"Whatever he is or isn't," I declared, "he's a thorough gentle- man, if I know one when I see him, and I'm sure I do. He's so very nice, Miss Hamilton. I do wish you'd let me accept the invitation for us all."
But it was of no avail to coax or sulk. Chagrined, I returned to my new acquaintance.
"I'm ashamed to tell you that we can't come to Windsor after all. Our friend is frightfully obstinate, and insists that you may be-that we don't know anything about you! She doesn't even know what a naval knight is!"
"Oh, that's quite all right," said the Lieutenant easily. "One really can't be too careful. But I've quite set my heart on your com- ing, and if you'll give me leave, I think I can convince her of my respectability."
We had our first sight of land next morning, Sunday. The Cap- tain, in lieu of a Chaplain, read service in the saloon, and the First Officer led the choir with a cornet. The Lieutenant had joined actively in the preparations: moving chairs, putting English prayer- books about, perfecting a programme of hymns and chants with our assistance. He had mentioned that one of his brothers was a clergyman. Miss Hamilton was plainly impressed, but had made no comment. At the dinner table he inquired:
"Am I still mal vu?"
"I haven't found out. But I presume she is partly mollified; she's an ardent Churchwoman."
"Alı! Tomorrow I shall play my trump card."
I wondered what that would be. We were coming nearer and nearer shore; there wasn't much time.
Next morning there were signs of preparation for landing. We were being drawn up the harbor of Liverpool by a tug. Yellow mist enveloped the ship; through it we could descry outlines of tall buildings. There was neither sound nor conscious motion; we seemed to be moving in a dream. Below, in the stillness of the saloon, sitting at a long table, the three Americans were finishing
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letters to send home. Lieutenant Bell appeared, and sat down op- posite us, a neat purple morocco paper-case in his hand. I wondered vaguely what his next move would be. Presently he drew out a sheet of paper. Casually he passed it across the table to me.
"Are you interested in autographs? You might like to see this one; it's a very good hand, I think."
There was a coronet embossed at the top of the page, and a few lines written or engraved, possibly in circular form, with names filled in. But the importance of the document lay in the short state- ment, conferring knighthood on a commissioned officer in Her Majesty's service. And underneath, a single proud word, written in bold characters by her own hand, VICTORIA.
I played my part in the little drama with a presence of mind over which I gloated ever after. I handed the sheet to my sister, saying only:
"It is a fine hand. Very interesting, isn't it?" I appeared to be already familiar with the handwriting of Royalty. Arria Hunting- ton was equally calm, and made some appropriate comment. Our chaperon colored up to her ears, and murmured something about the honor of possessing such a treasure. The paper floated gently back to the Lieutenant's portfolio. Pens scratched on.
When we all stood on the wharf that afternoon, the young officer offered his hand to Miss Hamilton as if to an old acquaint- ance.
"So virry pleased to have met you, Madam. We shall look for you next Sunday afternoon by the two o'clock train from Paddington station if you please. My sister and I will meet you when you get off at Windsor." And, bowing to Arria and me, he disappeared in the crowd.
"I really am very agreeably disappointed in that young man," observed our chaperon.
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The Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool was then a hospitable, spa- cious mansion. I found my room like the guest-room at Cedar Square: the high bed was curtained with flowered chintz, and be- fore an open fire was a deep armchair. Into this I sank for a reverie and a review of the voyage. I still felt the motion of the steamer, and smelled the salt air in my nostrils. Out of my hand-bag, an un- business-like affair of sage-green plush with gilt mountings, I took a photograph of Archie, which had come to me the morning of my departure from Syracuse. I studied the fine profile-the nose clean-cut and as sensitive as the mouth which a college-grown mous- tache had hidden, the broad brow. These were features in which I had always taken pride, and this likeness, taken especially for me, should be a talisman, a pledge of loyalty .. Nominally we had set each other free, but there could be no real freedom from abid- ing love. We might doubt ourselves, one another's constancy; yet faithful or unfaithful, in the depths of our hearts that love would remain. Let it be itself the holding-power! I assured myself once more of this love-the strongest thread in the pattern life was weav- ing for me, and then fell asleep, as usual expecting a joyous to- morrow.
We two sisters realized what congenial companions we were as we travelled together on land. Getting into London was a matter of, "Why, that's Charing Cross! Here's Trafalgar Square and the lions! That little bookstore must surely be a Dickens landmark." Every- thing was familiar; omnibuses, housefronts, hucksters, sign-boards, criers were sights long seen by the inner eye. Our faces at the win- dows of the cab were alight with discovery all the way to Albany
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Street where we were to stay with relatives of old Boston friends.
We arrived in time to dress for dinner. When we descended the household was already assembled: Mr. and Mrs. Yardley, their daughters and two other guests, one of them a fine-looking, middle- aged woman, her hair tinged with gray. She was describing a visit to Mrs. Ritchie, Thackeray's daughter, where Robert Browning had been present, and interrupted her narrative to nod pleasantly to us as we took our seats. English hostesses did not introduce guests to one another at their tables, so conversation was general. We learned that the lady was an American, on her way home after a journey on the continent with the quiet gentleman, whom we sup- posed was her husband, called Oscar. Moncure Conway was com- ing that evening to take her to the theatre or elsewhere. We re- alized that she was a highly privileged, if not also a celebrated per- sonage.
After dinner when we gathered in the drawing-room upstairs, she brought out photographs collected in France and Italy, es- pecially in Florence. I, who had already made an idol of her, as Cousin Ellen used to say, noticed that these were not just buildings or landscapes, but oftener some human scene with a personal asso- ciation: an open doorway; a picturesque donkey, a group of peas- ants; or a young mother with the face of a Madonna.
"You found something lovable wherever you went!" I ven- tured shyly.
"Of course I did. Isn't that what one travels for? I can't tell you anything about belated trains, or bad food, or poor accommoda- tions-those are the things one forgets, or ought to forget. People are the real thing-the near thing."
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