Thelma
of the public. What's the use of spending thought and care on the
manufacture of a jewelled diadem, and offering it to the people on a
velvet cushion, when they prefer an _olla-podrida_ of cast-off clothing,
dried bones and candle-ends? In brief, what would it avail to write as
grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, when society clamors for Zola and
others of his school?"
There was a little group round them by this time,--men generally
collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opinions,--and a double
attraction drew them together now in the person of the lovely woman to
whom he was holding forth.
Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily--surely the Norwegian peasant would not
understand Beau's similes,--for they were certainly incomprehensible to
Marcia. As for his last remark--why! she had read all Zola's novels in
the secrecy of her own room, and had gloated over them;--no words could
describe her intense admiration of books that were so indelicately
realistic! "He is jealous of other writers, I suppose," she thought;
"these literary people hate each other like poison."
Meanwhile Thelma's blue eyes looked puzzled. "I do not know that name,"
she said. "Zola!--what is he? He cannot be great. Shakespeare I
know,--he is the glory of the world, of course; I think him as noble as
Homer. Then for Walter Scott--I love all his beautiful stories--I have
read them many, many times, nearly as often as I have read Homer and the
Norse Sagas. And the world must surely love such writings--or how should
they last so long?" She laughed and shook her bright head archly.
"_Chiffonnier! Point du tout! Monsieur, les divines pensees que vous
avez donne au monde ne sont pas des chiffons._"
Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. "Let me find you a chair!"
he said. "It will be rather a difficult matter,--still I can but try.
You will be fatigued if you stand too long." And he moved through the
swaying crowd, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his
coat-sleeve,--while Marcia Van Clupp and her mother exchanged looks of
wonder and dismay. The "fisherwoman" could speak French,--moreover, she
could speak it with a wonderfully soft and perfect accent,--the "person"
had studied Homer and Shakespeare, and was conversant with the best
literature,--and, bitterest sting of all, the "peasant" could give every
woman in the room a lesson in deportment, grace, and perfect taste in
dress. Every costume looked tawdry beside her richly flowing velvet
draperies--every low bodice became indecent compared with the modesty of
that small square opening at Thelma's white throat--an opening just
sufficient to display her collar of diamonds--and every figure seemed
either dumpy and awkward, too big or too fat, or too lean and too
lanky--when brought into contrast with her statuesque outlines.
The die was cast,--the authority of Beau Lovelace was nearly supreme in
fashionable and artistic circles, and from the moment he was seen
devoting his attention to the "new beauty," excited whispers began to
flit from mouth to mouth,--"She will be the rage this season!"--"We must
ask her to come to us!"--"_Do_ ask Lady Winsleigh to introduce
us!"--"She _must_ come to _our_ house!" and so on. And Lady Winsleigh
was neither blind nor deaf--she saw and heard plainly enough that her
reign was over, and in her secret soul she was furious. The "common
farmer's daughter" was neither vulgar nor uneducated--and she was
surpassingly lovely--even Lady Winsleigh could not deny so plain and
absolute a fact. But her ladyship was a woman of the world, and she
perceived at once that Thelma was not. Philip had married a creature
with the bodily loveliness of a goddess and the innocent soul of a
child--and it was just that child-like, pure soul looking serenely out
of Thelma's eyes that had brought the long-forgotten blush of shame to
Clara Winsleigh's cheek. But that feeling of self-contempt soon
passed--she was no better and no worse than other women of her set, she
thought--after all, what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing,
except--except--perhaps, her "little affair" with "Lennie." A new
emotion now stirred her blood--one of malice and hatred, mingled with a
sense of outraged love and ungratified passion--for she still admired
Philip to a foolish excess. Her dark eyes flashed scornfully as she
noted the attitude of Sir Francis Lennox,--he was leaning against the
marble mantel-piece, stroking his moustache with one hand, absorbed in
watching Thelma, who, seated in an easy chair which Beau Lovelace had
found for her, was talking and laughing gaily with those immediately
around her, a group which increased in size every moment, and in which
the men were most predominant.
"Fool!" muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostrophizing "Lennie" in
this uncomplimentary manner. "Fool! I wonder if he thinks I care! He may
play hired lacquey to all the women in London if he likes! He looks a
prig compared to Philip!"
And her gaze wandered,--Philip was standing by his wife, engaged in an
animated conversation with Lord Winsleigh. They were all near the grand
piano--and Lady Clara, smoothing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets
gracefully up to that quarter of the room. Before she could speak, the
celebrated Herr Machtenklinken confronted her with some sternness.
"Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember," he said, loftily,
"zat I am here to blay! Zere has been no obbortunity--ze biano could not
make itself to be heard in zis fery moch noise. It is bossible your
ladyshib shall require not ze music zis efening? In zat case I shall
take my fery goot leave."
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyes with much superciliousness.
"As you please," she said coolly. "If _you_ are so indifferent to your
advantages--then all I can say is, so am I! You are, perhaps, known on
the Continent, Herr Machtenklinken,--but not here--and I think you ought
to be more grateful for my influence."
So saying, she passed on, leaving the luckless pianist in a state of the
greatest indignation.
"_Gott in Himmel!_" he gasped, in a sort of infuriated sotto voce. "Ze
Emberor himself would not have speak to me so! I come here as a
favor--her ladyshib do not offer me one _pfenning_,--ach! ze music is
not for such beoble! I shall brefer to blay to bigs! Zere is no art in
zis country!--"
And he began to make his way out of the room, when he was overtaken by
Beau Lovelace, who had followed him in haste.
"Where are you off to, Hermann?" he asked good-naturedly. "We want you
to play. There is a lady here who heard you in Paris quite recently--she
admires you immensely. Won't you come and be introduced to her?"
Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his hitherto angry
countenance.
"You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace," he remarked--"and I would do moch for
_you_--but her ladyshib understands me not--she has offend me--it is
better I should take my leave."
"Oh, bother her ladyship!" said Beau lightly. "Come along, and give us
something in your best style."
So saying, he led the half-reluctant artist back to the piano, where he
was introduced to Thelma, who gave him so sweet a smile that he was
fairly dazzled.
"It is you who play Schumann so beautifully," she said. "My husband and
I heard you at one of Lamoureux's concerts in Paris. I fear," and she
looked wistfully at him, "that you would think it very rude and selfish
of me if I asked you to play just one little piece? Because, of course,
you are here to enjoy yourself, and talk to your friends, and it seems
unkind to take you away from them!"
A strange moisture dimmed the poor German's eyes. This was the first
time in England that the "celebrate" had been treated as a friend and a
gentleman. Up to this moment, at all the "at homes" and "assemblies," he
had not been considered as a guest at all,--he was an "artist," "a good
pianist,"--"a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany"--and he
was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful for the "influence"
exercised on his behalf--influence which as yet had not put one single
extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady almost
apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should take him away from
his "friends"! His heart swelled with emotion and gratitude--the poor
fellow had no "friends" in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to
him, but who had no power in the musical world,--and, as Thelma's gentle
voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for
her sweet courtesy and kindness.
"Miladi," he said, with a profound reverence, "I will blay for you with
bleasure,--it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for
you!"
And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at
the instrument and struck a crashing chord to command silence.
The hum of conversation grew louder than ever--and to Thelma's surprise
Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr
Machtenklinken struck another chord,--in vain! The deafening clamor of
tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming
interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?
The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said--
"Excuse me,--I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is
impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly
unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to
leave off talking while this gentleman plays?"
Clara Winsleigh looked amused. "My dear, you don't know them," she said
carelessly. "They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are
always a few who listen."
Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the
instrument,--Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace
saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering
crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, "Silence, please!"
There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. "We want to hear some
music," he said, with the utmost coolness. "Conversation can be
continued afterwards." He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr
Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off
like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin.
Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a noble,
thoughtful, rapt expression,--his wild eyes softened,--his furrowed,
frowning brow smoothed,--and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of
Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and
tender--from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and
exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite
pathos--anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful
mazurkas, that remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance
over lonely and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of
himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers
closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his
efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual
bow,--but his real gratitude was all for Thelma. For her he had played
his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of
her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent
low over the fair hand she extended to him.
"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely sounds in
your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you
so very much for the pleasure you have given me!"
Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a
sort of contempt.
"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or she would not
be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his
profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of