The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864. Various
He was at the mercy of the woman who was here.
"Mrs. Edgar!"
"Adam."
"Here!"
"To thank you for the flowers, and to warn you that setting them in deserts is neither safe nor providential."
And now her eyes ran round the room,—a flash in which was sheathed a smile of satisfaction and of friendly pride. She had come here full of reproaches, but surely there was some enchantment against her.
"You will order a picture, perhaps?" said the artist, restored to at least an appearance of ease.
But his eyes did not follow hers. They stopped with her: with some misgiving, some doubt, some perplexity, for he knew not perfectly the ground on which he stood.
"You have been twice to see me, and both times have missed me," she said. "I was sorry for that. I did not know until then that you were living here."
"But what does it mean, that nobody in H– has heard the voice yet? It has distracted me to think, perhaps, some harm has come to it."
"Let that fear rest. The voice has had its day. I left it behind me at Havre. Any repetition of what we used to imagine were triumphs in the wonderful Düsseldorf days would now seem absurd, to the painter of these pictures, as to me."
"They were triumphs! Besides, have you forgotten? Was it not in New York, in '58, that you imported the voice from Havre, left behind by mistake? What more could be asked than to inspire a town with enthusiasm, so that the dullest should feel the contagion? They were triumphs such as women have seldom achieved. If you disdain them, recollect that human nature is still the same, and all that I have done is under the inspiration of a voice that broke on me in Düsseldorf, and opened heaven. And people find some pleasure in my pictures."
"Well may they! You, also. You have kept that power separate from sinners, unless I mistake. If it be my music, or the face yonder, that has helped you, or something else, unconfessed, perhaps unknown, you can, I perceive, at least love Art worthily, and be constant. As for St. Peter's, and myself, I find the fine organ there quite enough, with the boys to train and Miss Sybella Ives to instruct. It isn't much I can do for her, though; she is already a great and wonderful artist."
"Is it possible you think so!"
Was it really wonder at the judgment she heard in that exclamation? The voice sounded void of all except wonder,—yet wonder, perhaps, least of all was paramount in the pavilion of his secret thoughts.
"Decidedly. But I only engaged there as organist. I find sufficient pleasure instructing the young lady, without feeling ambitious to appear there as her rival."
"But you know she is not a professional singer": these words escaped the artist in spite of him. "She is an heiress of one of the wealthiest old families of this old town."
"Nevertheless, she is growing so rarely in these days I would not for the world check that growth, as I see I might. Besides, I am selfish; it's best for me to keep to my engagement, and not volunteer anything."
"And so we who have memories must rest content with them. I am glad you tell me, if it must be so. I have not haunted you, and I feel as if I almost deserved your thanks on that account. I've haunted the church, though, but"–
"Well."
"Miss Ives sings better than she did,—too well for such a girl in such a place."
"Why?"
"Because, as I said before, neither Art nor fortune justifies her, and what she gets will spoil her."
He ended in confusion; some thought unexpressed overthrew him just here, and he could not instantly gather himself up again.
"Do not fear," was the calm answer. "She is sacredly safe from that,—as safe as I am. For so young a person, she is rich in safeguards, though she seems to be alone; and she is brave enough to use them. If you come to the church to-morrow, you will be converted from the error of some of your worst thoughts."
"I told you in secret once, Heaven knows under what insane infatuation, what I could tell you now with husband or child for audience,—there is, there has ever been, but one voice for me."
For answer the organist lifted the lid of the artist's piano, touched a few notes, and sang.
Was that the voice that once brought out the applause of the people, rushing and roaring like the waves of the sea?
The same, etherealized, strengthened,—meeting the desire of the trained and cultured man, as once it had the impassioned aspiration of youth.
He stood there, as of old, completely subject to her will; and of old she had worked for good, as one of God's accredited angels. Every evil passion in those days had stood rebuked before the charmed circle of her influences: a voice to long for as the hart longs for the water-brooks; a spirit to trust for work, or for love, or for truth,—"truest truth," and stanchest loyalty, as one might trust those who are delivered forever from the power of temptation.
When she had ended the song, she had indeed ended. Not one note more. Closing the piano, she walked about the room, looking at his pictures one after another, pausing long before some, but the silence in which she made the circuit was unbroken.
At last she came to the last-painted picture, where a soldier lay dying, with glory on his face, victory in his eyes. Beside this she remained.
"There's many a realization of that dream," she said.
The words seemed to sting the artist as though she had said instead, "Here's one who is in no danger of realizing it."
"I thought," said he, "I might one day prove for myself the emotions attributed to that soldier."
She hesitated before answering. A vision rose before her,—a vision of fields covered with the slain, unburied dead. Here the paths of honor were cut short by the grave. She looked at Adam von Gelhorn. Here was no warrior except for courage, no knight but for chivalry. Yet how proudly his eyes met hers! What was this glance that seemed suddenly to fall upon her from some unbroken, awful height? It was a great thing to say, with the knowledge that came with that glance,—
"Do you no longer think so? Patriotism has its tests. This war will be long enough to sift enthusiasms."
Humbly he answered,—
"I wait my time."
Then, urged on by two motives, distinct, yet confluent, and so all-powerful,—
"Strange army, Adam, if all the soldiers waited for it."
He answered her as mildly as before, but with quite as deep assurance,—
"Not a man of them but has heard his name called. The time of a man is his own. The trumpet sounds, and though he were dead, yet shall he live."
"And do you wait that sound? Then verily you may remain here safely, and paint fine pictures of wounded men on awful battle-fields."
The artist looked at the woman. Did she speak to test his patience, or his courage, or his loyalty? Gravely he answered, true to himself, though baffled in his endeavor to read what she chose to conceal,—
"Once I took everything you said as if you were inspired, for I believed you were. For years I have been accustomed to think of your approval, and wait for it, and long for it; for I always knew you would finally stand here in the midst of my work as the one thing that should prove to me it was good. If you could only know what sort of value I have set on the praise of critics while waiting for yours, you would deem me ungrateful. But I knew you would come. You are here, then,—and I perceive, though you do not say so, that I have not wasted time; often, while I was painting that hero yonder, I said to myself, 'Better die than hold on to life or self a moment after the voice calls!' Julia, it has called!"
This was spoken quietly enough, but with the deep feeling that seeks neither outlet nor consolation in sound. Having spoken, he went up to his easel, cut away the canvas with long, even knife-strokes, set aside the frame. He was ready. And now he waited further orders,—looking at the woman who had accomplished so much.
She did not, by gesture or word, interrupt him;