A Modern Mephistopheles, and A Whisper in the Dark. Louisa May AlcottЧитать онлайн книгу.
above burned with deep-hearted roses pouring out their passionate perfume, as if in rivalry of the purple heliotrope, which overflowed great urns on either side of the stone steps.
Nothing broke the silence but the breezy rustle, the murmurous lapse of waters upon a quiet shore, and now and then the brief carol of a bird waking from its noontide sleep. A hammock swung at one end of the balcony, but it was empty; open doors showed the wide hall tenanted only by statues gleaming, cool and coy, in shadowy nooks; and the spirit of repose seemed to haunt the lovely spot.
For an hour the sweet spell lasted; then it was broken by the faint, far-off warble of a woman’s voice, which seemed to wake the sleeping palace into life; for, as if drawn by the music, a young man came through the garden, looking as Ferdinand might, when Ariel led him to Miranda.
Too beautiful for a man he was, and seemed to protest against it by a disdainful negligence of all the arts which could enhance the gracious gift. A picturesque carelessness marked his costume, the luxuriant curls that covered his head were in riotous confusion; and as he came into the light he stretched his limbs with the graceful abandon of a young wood-god rousing from his drowse in some green covert.
Swinging a knot of lilies in his hand, he sauntered up the long path, listening with a smile, for as the voice drew nearer he recognized both song and singer.
“Little Gladys must not see me, or she will end her music too soon,” he whispered to himself; and, stepping behind the great vase, he peered between the plumy sprays to watch the coming of the voice that made his verses doubly melodious to their creator’s ear.
Through the shadowy hall there came a slender creature in a quaint white gown, who looked as if she might have stepped down from the marble Hebe’s pedestal; for there was something wonderfully virginal and fresh about the maidenly figure with its deep, soft eyes, pale hair, and features clearly cut as a fine cameo. Emerging from the gloom into a flood of sunshine, which touched her head with a glint of gold, and brought out in strong relief the crimson cover of the book, held half-closed against her breast, she came down the steps, still singing softly to herself.
A butterfly was sunning its changeful wings on the carved balustrade, and she paused to watch it, quite unconscious of the picture she made, or the hidden observer who enjoyed it with the delight of one whose senses were keenly alive to all that ministers to pleasure. A childish act enough, but it contrasted curiously with the words she sung,—fervid words, that seemed to drop lingeringly from her lips as if in a new language; lovely, yet half learned.
“Pretty thing! I wish I could sketch her as she stands, and use her as an illustration to that song. No nightingale ever had a sweeter voice for a love-lay than this charming girl,” thought the flattered listener, as, obeying a sudden impulse, he flung up the lilies, stepped out from his ambush, and half-said, half-sung, as he looked up with a glance of mirthful meaning,—
“Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour,
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower.”
The flowers dropped at her feet, and, leaning forward with the supple grace of girlhood, she looked down to meet the dangerous dark eyes, while her own seemed to wake and deepen with a sudden light as beautiful as the color which dawned in her innocent face. Not the quick red of shame, nor the glow of vanity, but a slow, soft flush like the shadow of a rosy cloud on snow. No otherwise disconcerted, she smiled back at him, and answered with unexpected aptness, in lines that were a truer compliment than his had been,—
“Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.”
It was this charm of swift and subtle sympathy which made the girl seem sometimes like the embodied spirit of all that was most high and pure in his own wayward but aspiring nature. And this the spell that drew him to her now, glad to sun himself like the butterfly in the light of eyes so clear and candid, that he could read therein the emotions of a maiden heart just opening to its first, half-conscious love.
Springing up the steps, he said with the caressing air as native to him as his grace of manner. “Sit here and weave a pretty garland for your hair, while I thank you for making my poor verses beautiful. Where did you find the air that fits those words so well?”
“It came itself; as the song did, I think,” she answered simply, as she obeyed him, and began to braid the long brown stems, shaping a chaplet fit for Undine.
“Ah! you will never guess how that came!” he said, sitting at her feet to watch the small fingers at their pretty work. But though his eyes rested there, they grew absent; and he seemed to fall into a reverie not wholly pleasant, for he knit his brows as if the newly won laurel wreath sat uneasily upon a head which seemed made to wear it.
Gladys watched him in reverential silence till he became conscious of her presence again, and gave her leave to speak, with a smile which had in it something of the condescension of an idol towards its devoutest worshipper.
“Were you making poetry, then?” she asked, with the frank curiosity of a child.
“No, I was wondering where I should be now if I had never made any;” and he looked at the summer paradise around him with an involuntary shiver, as if a chill wind had blown upon him.
“Think rather what you will write next. It is so lovely I want more, although I do not understand all this,” touching the book upon her knee with a regretful sigh.
“Neither do I; much of it is poor stuff, Gladys. Do not puzzle your sweet wits over it.”
“That is because you are so modest. People say true genius is always humble.”
“Then, I am not a true genius; for I am as proud as Lucifer.”
“You may well be proud of such work as this;” and she carefully brushed a fallen petal from the silken cover.
“But I am not proud of that. At times I almost hate it!” exclaimed the capricious poet, impetuously, then checked himself, and added more composedly, “I mean to do so much better, that this first attempt shall be forgotten.”
“I think you will never do better; for this came from your heart, without a thought of what the world would say. Hereafter all you write may be more perfect in form but less true in spirit, because you will have the fear of the world, and loss of fame before your eyes.”
“How can you know that?” he asked, wondering that this young girl, so lately met, should read him so well, and touch a secret doubt that kept him idle after the first essay, which had been a most flattering success.
“Nay, I do not know, I only feel as if it must be so. I always sing best when alone, and the thought of doing it for praise or money spoils the music to my ear.”
“I feel as if it would be possible to do any thing here, and forget that there is a world outside.”
“Then it is not dull to you? I am glad, for I thought it would be, because so many people want you, and you might choose many gayer places in which to spend your summer holiday.”
“I have no choice in this; yet I was willing enough to come. The first time is always pleasant, and I am tired of the gayer places,” he said, with a blasé air that ill concealed how sweet the taste of praise had been to one who hungered for it.
“Yet it must seem very beautiful to be so sought, admired, and loved,” the girl said wistfully, for few of fortune’s favors had fallen into her lap as yet.
“It is, and I was intoxicated with the wine of success for a time. But after all, I find a bitter drop in it, for there is always a higher step to take, a brighter prize to win, and one is never satisfied.”
He paused