a wagner matinee-第2章

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intended　to　take　my　aunt；　though；　as　I　conversed　with　her　I　grew



doubtful　about　her　enjoyment　of　it。　　Indeed；　for　her　own　sake；　I



could　only　wish　her　taste　for　such　things　quite　dead；　and　the



long　struggle　mercifully　ended　at　last。　　I　suggested　our　visiting



the　Conservatory　and　the　Common　before　lunch；　but　she　seemed



altogether　too　timid　to　wish　to　venture　out。　　She　questioned　me



absently　about　various　changes　in　the　city；　but　she　was　chiefly



concerned　that　she　had　forgotten　to　leave　instructions　about



feeding　half…skimmed　milk　to　a　certain　weakling　calf；　〃old



Maggie's　calf；　you　know；　Clark；〃　she　explained；　evidently　having



forgotten　how　long　I　had　been　away。　　She　was　further　troubled



because　she　had　neglected　to　tell　her　daughter　about　the　freshly



opened　kit　of　mackerel　in　the　cellar；　which　would　spoil　if　it



were　not　used　directly。







I　asked　her　whether　she　had　ever　heard　any　of　the　Wagnerian



operas　and　found　that　she　had　not；　though　she　was　perfectly



familiar　with　their　respective　situations；　and　had　once　possessed



the　piano　score　of　The　Flying　Dutchman。　　I　began　to　think　it



would　have　been　best　to　get　her　back　to　Red　Willow　County　without



waking　her；　and　regretted　having　suggested　the　concert。







From　the　time　we　entered　the　concert　hall；　however；　she　was



a　trifle　less　passive　and　inert；　and　for　the　first　time　seemed　to



perceive　her　surroundings。　　I　had　felt　some　trepidation　lest　she



might　become　aware　of　the　absurdities　of　her　attire；　or　might



experience　some　painful　embarrassment　at　stepping　suddenly　into



the　world　to　which　she　had　been　dead　for　a　quarter　of　a　century。　



But；　again；　I　found　how　superficially　I　had　judged　her。　　She　sat



looking　about　her　with　eyes　as　impersonal；　almost　as　stony；　as



those　with　which　the　granite　Rameses　in　a　museum　watches　the



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