Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (625 page)

Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down

In endless demi-semi-quavers.

ARMGART (taking a bon-bon from the table, uplifting it before putting it into her mouth, and

turning away) .

Mum!

GRAF.

Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame.

WALPURGA.

You first, dear Leo — what you saw and heard;

Then Armgart — she must tell us what she felt.

LEO.

Well! The first notes came clearly firmly forth.

And I was easy, for behind those rills

I knew there was a fountain. I could see

The house was breathing gently, heads were still;

Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute,

And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood

As if she had been new-created there

And found her voice which found a melody.

The minx! Gluck had not written, nor I taught:

Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus.

Well, well, all through the scena I could feel

The silence tremble now, now poise itself

With added weight of feeling, till at last

Delight o’er-toppled it. The final note

Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar

That surged and ebbed and ever surged again,

Till expectation kept it pent awhile

Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui! He was changed:

My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes

That quivered like a bride’s who fain would send

Backward the rising tear.

ARMGART (advancing, but then turning away, as if to check her speech).

I was a bride,

As nuns are at their spousals.

LEO.

Ay, my lady,

That moment will not come again : applause

May come and plenty; but the first, first draught!

(Snaps his fingers.)

Music has sounds for it — I know no words.

I felt it once myself when they performed

My overture to Sintram. Well! ‘t is strange,

We know not pain from pleasure in such joy.

ARMGART (turning quickly).

Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls,

And when full Being comes must call on pain

To lend it liberal space.

WALPURGA.

I hope the house

Kept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealous

Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good

That should have seemed the better and the best.

LEO.

No, ‘t was a revel where they had but quaffed

Their opening cup. I thank the artist’s star,

His audience keeps not sober: once afire,

They flame toward climax, though his merit hold

But fairly even.

ARMGART (her hand on LEO S arm).

Now, now, confess the truth:

I sang still better to the very end —

All save the trill; I give that up to you,

To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself,

Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped

That you might hear heaven clearer.

LEO (shaking his finger).

I was raving.

ARMGART.

I am not glad with that mean vanity

Which knows no good beyond its appetite

Full feasting upon praise! I am only glad,

Being praised for what I know is worth the praise;

Glad of the proof that I myself have part

In what I worship! At the last applause —

Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed

The handkerchiefs and many-coloured flowers,

Falling like shattered rainbows all around —

Think you I felt myself a prima donna ?

No, but a happy spiritual star

Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose

Of light in Paradise, whose only self

Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused,

Music, life, power — I moving in the midst

With a sublime necessity of good.

LEO (with a shrug) .

I thought it was a prima donna came

Within the side-scenes; ay, and she was proud

To find the bouquet from the royal box

Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear

A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star,

Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own

Ambition has five senses, and a self

That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks

Plump down from ecstasy.

ARMGART.

Own it? why not?

Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed

Silently buried toward a far-off spring?

I sing to living men and my effect

Is like the summer’s sun, that ripens corn

Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts,

Gold, incense, myrrh — ‘t will be the needful sign

That I have stirred it as the high year stirs

Before I sink to winter.

GRAF.

Ecstasies

Are short — most happily! We should but lose

Were Armgart borne too commonly and long

Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose,

She were less apt to soar beyond the reach

Of woman’s foibles, innocent vanities,

Fondness for trifles like that pretty star

Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair.

ARMGART (taking out the gem and looking at it).

This little star! I would it were the seed

Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer

Were the sole speech men told their rapture with

At Armgart’s music. Shall I turn aside

From splendours which flash out the glow I make,

And live to make, in all the chosen breasts

Of half a Continent? No, may it come,

That splendour! May the day be near when men

Think much to let my horses draw me home,

And new lands welcome me upon their beach,

Loving me for my fame. That is the truth

Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie?

Pretend to seek obscurity — to sing

In hope of disregard? A vile pretence!

And blasphemy besides. For what is fame

But the benignant strength of One, transformed

To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come

As necessary breathing of such joy;

And may they come to me!

GRAF.

The auguries

Point clearly that way. Is it no offence

To wish the eagle’s wing may find repose,

As feebler wings do in a quiet nest?

Or has the taste of fame already turned

The Woman to a Muse . . .

LEO (going to the table).

Who needs no supper?

I am her priest, ready to eat her share

Of good Walpurga’s offerings.

WALPURGA.

Armgart, come.

Graf, will you come?

GRAF.

Thanks, I play truant here,

And must retrieve my self-indulged delay.

But will the Muse receive a votary

At any hour to-morrow?

ARMGART.

Any hour

After rehearsal, after twelve at noon.

SCENE II.

The same salon, morning. ARMGART seated, in her bonnet and walking dress. The GRAF standing

near her against the piano.

GRAF.

Armgart, to many minds the first success

Is reason for desisting. I have known

A man so versatile, he tried all arts,

But when in each by turns he had achieved

Just so much mastery as made men say,

“He could be king here if he would,” he threw

The lauded skill aside. He hates, said one,

The level of achieved pre-eminence,

He must be conquering still; but others said —

ARMGART.

The truth, I hope: he had a meagre soul,

Holding no depth where love could root itself.

“Could if he would?” True greatness ever wills —

It lives in wholeness if it live at all,

And all its strength is knit with constancy.