Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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"Oh thou," I said, "whose spirit moves among the immortals, I am mortal
yet immortal! My soul seeks commune with them. I yearn after that
communion. Life here on earth is not more dear to me than to thee. Help
me to rise above it. Thou hast been on high, show me too the way.

"Oh thou," I said, "who hast seen things ineffable, impart to me thy
confidence. Let me know thy secret. Receive me as the companion of thy
soul. Shut not thyself up in solitude. Listen, I can speak thy language.

"Attend," I cried, "for it is not for nothing that the Divine One has
sent thee back. Live not these mortal days in loneliness and in
uselessness. Regard thy fellow-mortals and seek to bless them. Thou hast
learned the mystery of the highest. Let me be thine interpreter. All
that thou hast learned I will communicate to man.

"Rise up," I cried, "to happiness and to labor. Behold! I give thee a
purpose in life. Blend thy soul with mine, and let me utter thy thoughts
so that men shall hear and understand. For I know that the highest truth
of highest Heaven means nothing more than love. Gather up all thy love,
let it flow forth to thy fellow-men. This shall be at once the labor and
the consolation of thy life."

Now all this, and much more--far more--was expressed in the tones that
flowed from my Cremona. It was all in my heart. It came forth. It was
apprehended by her. I saw it, I knew it, and I exulted. Her eyes dilated
more widely--my words were not unworthy of her hearing. I then was able
to tell something which could rouse her from her stupor. Oh, Music!
Divine Music! What power thou hast over the soul!

There came over her face an expression which I never saw before; one of
peace ineffable--the peace that passeth understanding. Ah me! I seemed
to draw her to myself. For she rose and walked toward me. And a great
calm came over my own soul. My Cremona spoke of peace--soft, sweet, and
deep; the profound peace that dwelleth in the soul which has its hope in
fruition. The tone widened into sweet modulation--sweet beyond all
expression.

She was so close that she almost touched me. Her eyes were still fixed
on mine. Tears were there, but not tears of sorrow. Her face was so
close to mine that my strength left me. My arms dropped downward. The
music was over.

[Illustration: "I DID NOT MAKE ANY REPLY, BUT TOOK MY CREMONA, AND
SOUGHT TO LIFT UP ALL MY SOUL TO A LEVEL WITH HERS."]

She held out her hand to me. I caught it in both of mine, and wet it
with my tears.

"Paolo," said she, in a voice of musical tone; "Paolo, you are already
one of us. You speak our language.

"You have taught me something which flows from love--duty. Yes, we will
labor together; and they who live on high will learn even in their
radiant home to envy us poor mortals."

I said not a word, but knelt; and holding her hand still, I looked up at
her in grateful adoration.

November 28.--For the last three months I have lived in heaven. She is
changed. Music has reconciled her to exile. She has found one who
speaks, though weakly, the language of that home.

We hold together through this divine medium a lofty spirited
intercourse. I learn from her of that starry world in which for a brief
time she was permitted to dwell. Her seraphic thoughts have become
communicated to me. I have made them my own, and all my spirit has risen
to a higher altitude.

So I have at last received that revelation for which I longed, and the
divine thoughts with which she has inspired me I will make known to the
world. How? Description is inadequate, but it is enough to say that I
have decided upon an Opera as the best mode of making known these ideas.

I have reported to one of those classical themes which, though as old as
civilization, are yet ever new, because they are truth.

My Opera is on the theme of Prometheus. It refers to Prometheus
Delivered. My idea is derived from her. Prometheus represents Divine
Love--since he is the god who suffers unendurable agonies through his
love for man. Zeus represents the old austere god of the sects and
creeds--the gloomy God of Vengeance--the stern--the inexorable--the
cruel.

Love endures through the ages, but at last triumphs. The chief agent in
his triumph is Athene. She represents Wisdom, which, by its life and
increase, at last dethrones the God of Vengeance and enthrones the God
of Love.

For so the world goes on; and thus it shall be that Human Understanding,
which I have personified under Athene, will at last exalt Divine Love
over all, and cast aside its olden adoration of Divine Vengeance.

I am trying to give to my Opera the severe simplicity of the classical
form, yet at the same time to pervade it all with the warm atmosphere of
love in its widest sense. It opens with a chorus of seraphim. Prometheus
laments; but the chief part is that of Athene. On that I have exhausted
myself.

But where can I get a voice that can adequately render my thoughts--
_our_ thoughts? Where is Bice? She alone has this voice; she alone
has the power of catching and absorbing into her own mind the ideas
which I form; and with it all, she alone could express them. I would
wander over the earth to find her. But perhaps she is in a luxurious
home, where her associates would not listen to such a proposal.

Patience! perhaps Bice may at last bring her marvelous voice to my aid.

December 15.--Every day our communion has grown more exalted. She
breathes upon me the atmosphere of that radiant world, and fills my soul
with rapture. I live in a sublime enthusiasm. We hold intercourse by
means of music. We stand upon a higher plane than that of common men.
She has raised me there, and has made me to be a partaker in her
thoughts.

Now I begin to understand something of the radiant world to which she
was once for a brief time borne. I know her lost joys; I share in her
longings. In me, as in her, there is a deep, unquenchable thirst after
those glories that are present there. All here seems poor and mean. No
material pleasure can for a moment allure.

I live in a frenzy. My soul is on fire. Music is my sole thought and
utterance. Colonel Despard thinks that I am mad. My friends here pity
me. I smile within myself when I think of pity being given by them to
me. Kindly souls! could they but have one faint idea of the unspeakable
joys to which I have attained!

My Cremona is my voice. It expresses all things for me. Ah, sweet
companion of my soul's flight! my Guide, my Guardian Angel, my Inspirer!
had ever before two mortals while on earth a lot like ours? Who else
besides us in this life ever learned the joys of pure spiritual
communion? We rise on high together. Our souls are borne up in company.
When we hold commune we cease to be mortals.

My Opera is finished. The radiancy of that Divine Love which has
inundated all the being of Edith has been imparted to me in some measure
sufficient to enable me to breathe forth to human ears tones which have
been caught from immortal voices. She has given me ideas. I have made
them audible and intelligible to men.

I have had one performance of my work, or rather our work, for it is all
hers. Hers are the thoughts, mine is only the expression.

I sought out a place of solitude in which I might perform undisturbed
and without interruption the theme which I have tried to unfold.

Opposite my house is a wild, rocky shore covered with the primeval
woods. Here in one place there rises a barren rock, perfectly bare of
verdure, which is called Mount Misery. I chose his place as the spot
where I might give my rehearsal.

She was the audience--I was the orchestra--we two were alone.

Mount Misery is one barren rock without a blade of grass on all its dark
iron-like surface. Around it is a vast accumulation of granite boulders
and vast rocky ledges. The trees are stunted, the very ferns can
scarcely find a place to grow.

It was night. There was not a cloud in the sky. The moon shone with
marvelous lustre.

Down in front of us lay the long arm of the sea that ran up between us
and the city. On the opposite side were woods, and beyond them rose the
citadel, on the other side of which the city lay nestling at its base
like those Rhenish towns which lie at the foot of feudal castles.

On the left hand all was a wilderness; on the right, close by, was a
small lake, which seemed like a sheet of silver in the moon's rays.
Farther on lay the ocean, stretching in its boundless extent away to the
horizon. There lay islands and sand-banks with light-houses. There,
under the moon, lay a broad path of golden light--molten gold--
unruffled--undisturbed in that dead calm.

My Opera begins with an Alleluia Chorus. I have borrowed words from the
Angel Song at the opening of "Faust" for my score. But the music has an
expression of its own, and the words are feeble; and the only comfort
is, that these words will be lost in the triumph strain of the tones
that accompany them.

She was with me, exulting where I was exultant, sad where I was
sorrowful; still with her air of Guide and Teacher. She is my Egeria.
She is my Inspiring Muse. I invoke her when I sing.

But my song carried her away. Her own thoughts expressed by my utterance
were returned to her, and she yielded herself up altogether to their
power.

Ah me! there is one language common to all on earth, and to all in
heaven, and that is music.

I exulted then on that bare, blasted rock. I triumphed. She joined me in
it all. We exulted together. We triumphed. We mourned, we rejoiced, we
despaired, we hoped, we sung alleluias in our hearts. The very winds
were still. The very moon seemed to stay her course. All nature was
hushed.

She stood before me, white, slender, aerial, like a spirit from on high,
as pure, as holy, as stainless. Her soul and mine were blended. We moved
to one common impulse. We obeyed one common motive.

What is this? Is it love? Yes; but not as men call love. Ours is
heavenly love, ardent, but yet spiritual; intense, but without passion;
a burning love like that of the cherubim; all-consuming, all-engrossing,
and enduring for evermore.

Have I ever told her my admiration? Yes; but not in words. I have told
her so in music, in every tone, in every strain. She knows that I am
hers. She is my divinity, my muse, my better genius--the nobler half of
my soul.

I have laid all my spirit at her feet, as one prostrates himself before
a divinity. She has accepted that adoration and has been pleased.

We are blended. We are one, but not after an earthly fashion, for never
yet have I even touched her hand in love. It is our spirits, our real
selves--not our merely visible selves--that love; yet that love is so
intense that I would die for evermore if my death could make her life
more sweet.

She has heard all this from my Cremona.

Here, as we stood under the moon, I thought her a spirit with a mortal
lover. I recognized the full meaning of the sublime legend of Numa and
Egeria. The mortal aspires in purity of heart, and the immortal comes
down and assists and responds to his aspirations.

Our souls vibrated in unison to the expression of heavenly thoughts. We
threw ourselves into the rapture of the hour. We trembled, we thrilled,
till at last frail mortal nature could scarcely endure the intensity of
that perfect joy.

So we came to the end. The end is a chorus of angels. They sing the
divinest of songs that is written in Holy Revelation. All the glory of
that song reaches its climax in the last strain:

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes!"

We wept together. But we dried our tears and went home, musing on that
"tearless eternity" which lies before us.

Morning is dawning as I write, and all the feeling of my soul can be
expressed in one word, the sublimest of all words, which is intelligible
to many of different languages and different races. I will end with
this:

"Alleluia!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THIS MUST END.

The note which accompanied Langhetti's journal was as follows:

"HALIFAX, December 18, 1848.

"TERESUOLA VIA DOLCISSIMA,--I send you my journal, _sorella
carissima_. I have been silent for a long time. Forgive me. I have
been sad and in affliction. But affliction has turned to joy, and I have
learned things unknown before.

"_Teresina mia_, I am coming back to England immediately. You may
expect to see me at any time during the next three months. _She_
will be with me; but so sensitive is she--so strange would she be to
you--that I do not know whether it will be well for you to see her or
not. I dare not let her be exposed to the gaze of any one unknown to
her. Yet, sweetest _sorellina_, perhaps I may be able to tell her
that I have a dearest sister, whose heart is love, whose nature is
noble, and who could treat her with tenderest care.

"I intend to offer my Opera to the world at London. I will be my own
impresario. Yet I want one thing, and that is a Voice. Oh for a Voice
like that of Bice! But it is idle to wish for her.

"Never have I heard any voice like hers, my Teresina. God grant that I
may find her!

"Expect soon and suddenly to see your most loving brother,

"PAOLO."

Mrs. Thornton showed this note to Despard the next time they met. He had
read the journal in the mean time.

"So he is coming back?" said he.

"Yes."

"And with this marvelous girl?"

"Yes."

"She seems to me like a spirit."

"And to me."

"Paolo's own nature is so lofty and so spiritual that one like her is
intelligible to him. Happy is it for her that he found her."

"Paolo is more spiritual than human. He has no materialism. He is
spiritual. I am of the earth, earthy; but my brother is a spirit
imprisoned, who chafes at his bonds and longs to be free. And think what
Paolo has done for her in his sublime devotion!"

"I know others who would do as much," said Despard, in a voice that
seemed full of tears; "I know others who, like him, would go to the
grave to rescue the one they loved, and make all life one long devotion.
I know others," he continued, "who would gladly die, if by dying they
could gain what he has won--the possession of the one they love. Ah me!
Paolo is happy and blessed beyond all men. Between him and her there is
no insuperable barrier, no gulf as deep as death."

Despard spoke impetuously, but suddenly checked himself.

"I received," said he, "by the last mail a letter from my uncle in
Halifax. He is ordered off to the Cape of Good Hope. I wrote him a very
long time ago, as I told you, asking him to tell me without reserve all
that he knew about my father's death. I told him plainly that there was
a mystery about it which I was determined to solve. I reproached him for
keeping it secret from me, and reminded him that I was now a mature man;
and that he had no right nor any reason to maintain any farther secrecy.
I insisted on knowing all, no matter what it might be.

"I received his letter by the last mail. Here it is;" and he handed it
to her. "Read it when you get home. I have written a few words to you,
little playmate, also. He has told me all. Did you know this before?"

"Yes, Lama," said Mrs. Thornton, with a look of sorrowful sympathy.

"You knew all my father's fate?"

"Yes, Lama."

"And you kept it secret?"

"Yes, Lama. How could I bear to tell you and give you pain?"

Her voice trembled as she spoke. Despard looked at her with an
indescribable expression.

"One thought," said he, slowly, "and one feeling engrosses all my
nature, and even this news that I have heard can not drive it away. Even
the thought of my father's fate, so dark and so mysterious, can not
weaken the thoughts that have all my life been supreme. Do you know,
little playmate, what those thoughts are?"

She was silent. Despard's hand wandered over the keys. They always spoke
in low tones, which were almost whispers, tones which were inaudible
except to each other. And Mrs. Thornton had to bow her head close to his
to hear what he said.

"I must go," said Despard, after a pause, "and visit Brandon again. I do
not know what I can do, but my father's death requires further
examination. This man Potts is intermingled with it. My uncle gives dark
hints. I must make an examination."

"And you are going away again?" said Mrs. Thornton, sadly.

Despard sighed.

"Would it not be better," said he, as be took her hand in his--"would it
not be better for you, little playmate, if I went away from you
forever?"

She gave him one long look of sad reproach. Then tears filled her eyes.

"This can not go on forever," she murmured. "It must come to that at
last!"

CHAPTER XXIX.

BEATRICE'S JOURNAL.

October 30, 1848.--My recovery has been slow, and I am still far from
well. I stay in my room almost altogether. Why should I do otherwise?
Day succeeds day, and each day is a blank.

My window looks on the sea, and I can sit there and feed my heart on the
memories which that sea calls up. It is company for me in my solitude.
It is music, though I can not hear its voice. Oh, how I should rejoice
if I could get down by its margin and touch its waters! Oh how I should
rejoice if those waters would flow over me forever!

November 15.--Why I should write any thing now I do not know. This
uneventful life offers nothing to record. Mrs. Compton is as timid, as
gentle, and as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor, timorous, kindly
soul, sends me flowers by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever get here?
How did Mrs. Compton?

December 28.--In spite of my quiet habits and constant seclusion I feel
that I am under some surveillance, not from Mrs. Compton, but from
others. I have been out twice during the last fortnight and perceived
this plainly. Men in the walks who were at work quietly followed me with
their eyes. I see that I am watched. I did not know that I was of
sufficient importance.

Yesterday a strange incident occurred. Mrs. Compton was with me, and by
some means or other my thoughts turned to one about whom I have often
tried to form conjectures--my mother. How could she ever have married a
man like my father? What could she have been like? Suddenly I turned to
Mrs. Compton, and said:

"Did you ever see my mother?"

What there could have been in my question I can not tell, but she
trembled and looked at me with greater fear in her face than I had ever
seen there before. This time she seemed to be afraid of me. I myself
felt a cold chill run through my frame. That awful thought which I had
once before known flashed across my mind.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly, "oh, don't look at me so; don't look
at me so!"

"I don't understand you," said I, slowly.

She hid her face in her hands and began to weep. I tried to soothe her,
and with some success, for after a time she regained her composure.
Nothing more was said. But since then one thought, with a long series of
attendant thoughts, has weighed down my mind. _Who am I? What am I?
What am I doing here? What do these people want with me? Why do they
guard me?_

I can write no more.

January 14, 1849.--The days drag on. Nothing new has happened. I am
tormented by strange thoughts. I see this plainly that there are times
when I inspire fear in this house. Why is this?

Since that day, many, many months ago, when they all looked at me in
horror, I have seen none of them. Now Mrs. Compton has exhibited the
same fear. There is a restraint over her. Yes, she too fears me. Yet she
is kind; and poor Philips never forgets to send me flowers.

I could smile at the idea of any one fearing me, if it were not for the
terrible thoughts that arise within my mind.

February 12.--Of late all my thoughts have changed, and I have been
inspired with an uncontrollable desire to escape. I live here in luxury,
but the meanest house outside would be far preferable. Every hour here
is a sorrow, every day a misery. Oh, me! if I could but escape!

Once in that outer world I care not what might happen. I would be
willing to do menial labor to earn my bread. Yet it need not come to
that. The lessons which Paolo taught me have been useful in more ways
than one. I know that I at least need not be dependent.

He used to say to me that if I chose to go on the stage and sing, I
could do something better than gain a living or make a fortune. He said
I could interpret the ideas of the Great Masters, and make myself a
blessing to the world.

Why need I stay here when I have a voice which he used to deign to
praise? He did not praise it because he loved me; but I think he loved
me because he loved my voice. He loves my voice better than me. And that
other one! Ah me--will he ever hear my voice again? Did he know how
sweet his voice was to me? Oh me! its tones ring in my ears and in my
heart night and day.

March 5.--My resolution is formed. This may be my last entry. I pray to
God that it may be. I will trust in him and fly. At night they can not
be watching me. There is a door at the north end, the key of which is
always in it. I can steal out by that direction and gain my liberty.

Oh Thou who hearest prayer, grant deliverance to the captive!

Farewell now, my journal; I hope never to see you again! Yet I will
secrete you in this chamber, for if I am compelled to return I may be
glad to seek you again.

March 6.--Not yet! Not yet!

Alas! and since yesterday what things have happened! Last night I was to
make my attempt. They dined at eight, and I waited for them to retire. I
waited long. They were longer than usual.

[Illustration: "OH!" CRIED MRS. COMPTON SUDDENLY, "OH, DON'T LOOK AT ME
SO; DON'T LOOK AT ME SO!"]

At about ten o'clock Mrs. Compton came into my room, with as frightened
a face as usual. "They want you," said she.

I knew whom she meant. "Must I go?" said I.

"Alas, dear child, what can you do? Trust in God. He can save you."

"He alone can save me," said I, "if He will. It has come to this that I
have none but Him in whom I can trust."

She began to weep. I said no more, but obeyed the command and went down.

Since I was last there months had passed--months of suffering and
anguish in body and mind. The remembrance of my last visit there came
over me as I entered. Yet I did not tremble or falter. I crossed the
threshold and entered the room, and stood before them in silence.

I saw the three men who had been there before. _He_ and his son,
and the man Clark, They had all been drinking. Their voices were loud
and their laughter boisterous as I approached. When I entered they
became quiet, and all three stared at me. At last _he_ said to his
son,

"She don't look any fatter, does she, Johnnie?"

"She gets enough to eat, any how," answered John.

"She's one of them kind," said the man Clark, "that don't fatten up. But
then, Johnnie, you needn't talk--you haven't much fat yourself, lad."

"Hard work," said John, whereupon the others, thinking it an excellent
joke, burst into hoarse laughter. This put them into great good-humor
with themselves, and they began to turn their attention to me again. Not
a word was said for some time.

"Can you dance?" said he, at last, speaking to me abruptly.

"Yes," I answered.

"Ah! I thought so. I paid enough for your education, any how. It would
be hard if you hadn't learned any thing else except squalling and
banging on the piano."

I said nothing.

"Why do you stare so, d--n you?" he cried, looking savagely at me.

I looked at the floor.

"Come now," said he. "I sent for you to see if you can dance. Dance!"

I stood still. "Dance!" he repeated with an oath. "Do you hear?"

"I can not," said I.

"Perhaps you want a partner," continued he, with a sneer. "Here,
Johnnie, go and help her."

"I'd rather not," said John.

"Clark, you try it--you were always gay," and he gave a hoarse laugh.

"Yes, Clark," cried John. "Now's your chance."

Clark hesitated for a moment, and then came toward me. I stood with my
arms folded, and looked at him fixedly. I was not afraid. For I thought
in that hour of who these men were, and what they were. My life was in
their hands, but I held life cheap. I rose above the fear of the moment,
and felt myself their superior.

Clark came up to me and stopped. I did not move.

"Curse her!" said he. "I'd as soon dance with a ghost. She looks like
one, any how."

_He_ laughed boisterously.

"He's afraid. He's getting superstitious!" he cried. "What do you think
of that, Johnnie?"

"Well," drawled John, "it's the first time I ever heard of Clark being
afraid of any thing."

These words seemed to sting Clark to the quick.

"Will you dance?" said he, in a hoarse voice.

I made no answer.

"Curse her! make her dance!" _he_ shouted, starting up from his
chair. "Don't let her bully you, you fool!"

Clark stepped toward me and laid one heavy hand on mine, while he
attempted to pass the other round my waist. At the horror of his
polluting touch all my nature seemed transformed. I started back. There
came something like a frenzy over me. I neither knew nor cared what I
said.

Yet I spoke slowly, and it was not like passion. All that I had read in
that manuscript was in my heart, the very spirit of the murdered Despard
seemed to inspire me.

"Touch me not," I said. "Trouble me not. I am near enough to Death
already. And you," I cried, stretching out my hand to him, "THUG! never
again will I obey one command of yours. Kill me if you choose, and send
me after Colonel Despard."

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