a wagner matinee-第2部分

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froth　and　fret　that　ebbs　and　flows　about　his　pedestal…separated



from　it　by　the　lonely　stretch　of　centuries。　　I　have　seen　this



same　aloofness　in　old　miners　who　drift　into　the　Brown　Hotel　at



Denver；　their　pockets　full　of　bullion；　their　linen　soiled；　their



haggard　faces　unshaven；　standing　in　the　thronged　corridors　as



solitary　as　though　they　were　still　in　a　frozen　camp　on　the　Yukon；



conscious　that　certain　experiences　have　isolated　them　from　their



fellows　by　a　gulf　no　haberdasher　could　bridge。







We　sat　at　the　extreme　left　of　the　first　balcony；　facing　the



arc　of　our　own　and　the　balcony　above　us；　veritable　hanging



gardens；　brilliant　as　tulip　beds。　　The　matinee　audience　was　made



up　chiefly　of　women。　　One　lost　the　contour　of　faces　and　figures



indeed；　any　effect　of　line　whatever…and　there　was　only　the　color



of　bodices　past　counting；　the　shimmer　of　fabrics　soft　and　firm；



silky　and　sheer：　red；　mauve；　pink；　blue；　lilac；　purple；　ecru；



rose；　yellow；　cream；　and　white；　all　the　colors　that　an



impressionist　finds　in　a　sunlit　landscape；　with　here　and　there



the　dead　shadow　of　a　frock　coat。　　My　Aunt　Georgiana　regarded　them



as　though　they　had　been　so　many　daubs　of　tube…paint　on　a　palette。







When　the　musicians　came　out　and　took　their　places；　she　gave



a　little　stir　of　anticipation　and　looked　with　quickening　interest



down　over　the　rail　at　that　invariable　grouping；　perhaps　the　first



wholly　familiar　thing　that　had　greeted　her　eye　since　she　had　left



old　Maggie　and　her　weakling　calf。　　I　could　feel　how　all　those



details　sank　into　her　soul；　for　I　had　not　forgotten　how　they　had



sunk　into　mine　when。　　I　came　fresh　from　plowing　forever　and



forever　between　green　aisles　of　corn；　where；　as　in　a　treadmill；



one　might　walk　from　daybreak　to　dusk　without　perceiving　a　shadow



of　change。　　The　clean　profiles　of　the　musicians；　the　gloss　of



their　linen；　the　dull　black　of　their　coats；　the　beloved　shapes　of



the　instruments；　the　patches　of　yellow　light　thrown　by　the　green…



shaded　lamps　on　the　smooth；　varnished　bellies　of　the　cellos　and



the　bass　viols　in　the　rear；　the　restless；　wind…tossed　forest　of



fiddle　necks　and　bows…I　recalled　how；　in　the　first　orchestra　I



had　ever　heard；　those　long　bow　strokes　seemed　to　draw　the　heart



out　of　me；　as　a　conjurer's　stick　reels　out　yards　of　paper　ribbon



from　a　hat。







The　first　number　was　the　Tannhauser　overture。　　When　the



horns　drew　out　the　first　strain　of　the　Pilgrim's　chorus　my　Aunt



Georgiana　clutched　my　coat　sleeve。　　Then　it　was　I　first　realized



that　for　her　this　broke　a　silence　of　thirty　years；　the



inconceivable　silence　of　the　plains。　　With　the　battle　between　the



two　motives；　with　the　frenzy　of　the　Venusberg　theme　and　its



ripping　of　strings；　there　came　to　me　an　overwhelming　sense　of　the



waste　and　wear　we　are　so　powerless　to　combat；　and　I　saw　again　the



tall；　naked　house　on　the　prairie；　black　and　grim　as　a　wooden



fortress；　the　black　pond　where　I　had　learned　to　swim；　its　margin



pitted　with　sun…dried　cattle　tracks；　the　rain…gullied　clay　banks



about　the　naked　house；　the　four　dwarf　ash　seedlings　where　the



dishcloths　were　always　hung　to　dry　before　the　kitchen　door。　　The



world　there　was　the　flat　world　of　the　ancients；　to　the　east；　a



cornfield　that　stretched　to　daybreak；　to　the　west；　a　corral　that



reached　to　sunset；　between；　the　conquests　of　peace；　dearer　bought



than　those　of　war。







The　overture　closed；　my　aunt　released　my　coat　sleeve；　but



she　said　nothing。　　She　sat　staring　at　the　orchestra　through　a



dullness　of　thirty　years；　through　the　films　made　little　by　little



by　each　of　the　three　hundred　and　sixty…five　days　in　every　one　of



them。　　What；　I　wondered；　did　she　get　from　it？　　She　had　been　a　good



pianist　in　her　day　I　knew；　and　her　musical　education　had　been



broader　than　that　of　most　music　teachers　of　a　quarter　of　a



century　ago。　　She　had　often　told　me　of　Mozart's　operas　and



Meyerbeer's；　and　I　could　remember　hearing　her　sing；　years　ago；



certain　melodies　of　Verdi's。　　When　I　had　fallen　ill　with　a　fever



in　her　house　she　used　to　sit　by　my　cot　in　the　eveningwhen　the



cool；　night　wind　blew　in　through　the　faded　mosquito　netting



tacked　over　the　window；　and　I　lay　watching　a　certain　bright　star



that　burned　red　above　the　cornfieldand　sing　〃Home　to　our



mountains；　O；　let　us　return！〃　in　a　way　fit　to　break　the　heart　of



a　Vermont　boy　near　dead　of　homesickness　already。







I　watched　her　closely　through　the　prelude　to　Tristan　and



Isolde；　trying　vainly　to　conjecture　what　that　seething　turmoil



of　strings　and　winds　might　mean　to　her；　but　she　sat　mutely　staring



at　the　violin　bows　that　drove　obliquely　downward；　like　the



pelting　streaks　of　rain　in　a　summer　shower。　　Had　this　music　any



message　for　her？　　Had　she　enough　left　to　at　all　comprehend　this



power　which　had　kindled　the　world　since　she　had　left　it？　　I　was



in　a　fever　of　curiosity；　but　Aunt　Georgiana　sat　silent　upon　her



peak　in　Darien。　　She　preserved　this　utter　immobility　throughout



the　number　from　The　Flying　Dutchman；　though　her　fingers



worked　mechanically　upon　her　black　dress；　as　though；　of　themselves；



they　were　recalling　the　piano　score　they　had　once　played。　　Poor　old



hands！　　They　had　been　stretched　and　twisted　into　mere　tentacles　to



hold　and　lift　and　knead　with；　the　palms　unduly　swollen；　the



fingers　bent　and　knottedon　one　of　them　a　thin；　worn　band　that



had　once　been　a　wedding　ring。　　As　I　pressed　and　gently　quieted



one　of　those　groping　hands　I　remembered　with　quivering　eyelids



their　services　for　me　in　other　days。







Soon　after　the　tenor　began　the　〃Prize　Song；〃　I　heard　a　quick



drawn　breath　and　turned　to　my　aunt。　　Her　eyes　were　closed；　but



the　tears　were　glistening　on　her　cheeks；　and　I　think；　in　a　moment



more；　they　were　in　my　eyes　as　well。　　It　never　really　died；　then



the　soul　that　can　suffer　so　excruciatingly　and　so　interminably；



it　withers　to　the　outward　eye　only；　like　that　strange　moss　which



can　lie　on　a　dusty　shelf　half　a　century　and　yet；　if　placed　in



water；　grows　green　again。　　She　wept　so　throughout　the　development



and　elaboration　of　the　melody。







During　the　intermission　before　the　second　half　of　the　concert；　I



questioned　my　aunt　and　found　that　the　〃Prize　Song〃　was　not　new　to



her。　　Some　years　before　there　had　drifted　to　the　farm　in　Red　Willow



County　a　young　German；　a　tramp　cowpuncher；　who　had　sung　the　chorus



at　Bayreuth；　when　he　was　a　boy；　along　with　the　other　peasant　boys



and　girls。　　Of　a　Sunday　morning　he　used　to　sit　on　his



gingham…sheeted　bed　in　the　hands'　bedroom　which　opened　off　the



kitchen；　cleaning　the　leather　of　his　boots　and　saddle；　singing　the



〃Prize　Song；〃　while　my　aunt　went　about　her　work　in　the　kitchen。　



She　had　hovered　about　him　until　she　had　prevailed　upon　him　to　join



the　country　church；　though　his　sole　fitness　for　this　step；　insofar



as　I　could　gather；　lay　in　his　boyish　face　and　his　possession　of



this　divine　melody。　　Shortly　afterward　he　had　gone　to　town　on　the



Fourth　of　July；　been　drunk　for　several　days；　lost　his　money　at　a



faro　table；　ridden　a　saddled　Texan　steer　on　a　bet；　and　disappeared



with　a　fractured　collarbone。　　All　this　my　aunt　told　me　huskily；



wanderingly；　as　though　she　were　talking　in　the　weak　lapses　of



illness。







〃Well；　we　have　come　to　better　things　than　the　old　Trovatore



at　any　rate；　Aunt　Georgie？〃　I　queried；　with　a　well…meant　effort



at　jocularity。







Her　lip　quivered　and　she　hastily　put　her　handkerchief　up　to



her　mouth。　　From　behind　it　she　murmured；　〃And　you　have　been



hearing　this　ever　since　you　left　me；　Clark？〃　　Her　question　was　the



gentlest　and　saddest　of　reproaches。







The　second　half　of　the　program　consisted　of　four　numbers　from　the



Ring；　and　closed　with　Siegfried's　funeral　march。　　My



aunt　wept　quietly；　but　almost　continuously；　as　a　shallow　vessel



overflows　in　a　rainstorm。　　From　time　to　time　her　dim　eyes　looked



up　at　the　lights　which　studded　the　ceiling；　burning　softly　under



their　dull　glass　globes；　doubtless　they　were　stars　in　truth　to



her。　　I　was　still　perplexed　as　to　what　measure　of　musical



comprehension　was　left　to　her；　she　who　had　heard　nothing　but　the



singing　of　gospel　hymns　at　Methodist　services　in　the　square　frame



schoolhouse　on　Section　Thirteen　for　so　many　years。　　I　was　wholly



unable　to　gauge　how　much　of　it　had　been　dissolved　in　soapsuds；　or



worked　into　bread；　or　milked　into　the　bottom　of　a　pail。







The　deluge　of　sound　poured　on　and　on；　I　never　knew　what　she



found　in　the　shining　current　of　it；　I　never　knew　how　far　it　bore



her；　or　past　what　happy　islands。　　From　the　trembling　of　her　face



I　could　well　believe　that　before　the　last　numbers　she　had　been



carried　out　where　the　myriad　graves　are；　into　the　gray；



nameless　burying　grounds　of　the　sea；　or　into　some　world　of　death



vaster　yet；　where；　from　the　beginning　of　the　world；　hope　has　lain



down　with　hope　and　dream　with　dream　and；　renouncing；　slept。







The　concert　was　over；　the　people　filed　out　of　the　hall



chattering　and　laughing；　glad　to　relax　and　find　the　living　level



again；　but　my　kinswoman　made　no　effort　to　rise。　　The　harpist



slipped　its　green　felt　cover　over　his　instrument；　the　flute



players　shook　the　water　from　their　mouthpieces；　the　men　of　the



orchestra　went　out　one　by　one；　leaving　the　stage　to　the　chairs



and　music　stands；　empty　as　a　winter　cornfield。







I　spoke　to　my　aunt。　　She　burst　into　tears　and　sobbed　pleadingly。