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THE BELOVED TUNE.
Fragments of a Life, in Small Pictures
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
—Leigh Hunt.
In a pleasant English garden, on a rustic chair of
intertwisted boughs, are seated two happy human
beings. Beds of violets perfume the air, and the
verdant hedge-rows stand sleepily in the moonlight.
A guitar lies on the greensward, but it is silent now,
for all is hushed in the deep stillness of the heart.
That youthful pair are whispering their first acknowledgment
of mutual love. With them is now unfolding
life's best and brightest blossom, so beautiful and
so transient, but leaving, as it passes into fruit, a fragrance
through all the paths of memory.
And now the garden is alone in the moonlight.
The rustic bench, and the whispering foliage of the
tree, tell each other no tales of those still kisses, those
gentle claspings, and all the fervent language of the
heart. But the young man has carried them away
in his soul; and as he sits alone at his chamber window,
gazing in the mild face of the moon, he feels,
as all do who love and are beloved, that he is a better
man, and will henceforth be a wiser and a purer one.
The worlds within and without are veiled in transfigured
glory, and breathe together in perfect harmony.
this fulness of beauty, there is but one utterance;
the yearning heart must overflow in music.
Faint and uncertain come the first tones of the guitar,
breathing as softly as if they responded to the mere
touch of the moonbeams. But now the rich manly
voice has united with them, and a clear spiritual
melody flows forth, plaintive and impassioned, the
modulated breath of indwelling life and love. All
the secrets of the garden, secrets that painting and
poetry had no power to reveal, have passed into the
song.
At first, the young musician scarcely noticed the
exceeding beauty of the air he was composing. But
a passage that came from the deepest of the heart, returned
to the heart again, and filled it with its own
sweet echoes. He lighted a lamp, and rapidly transferred
the sounds to paper. Thus has he embodied
the floating essence of his soul, and life's brightest
inspiration cannot pass away with the moonlight and
the violet-fragrance that veiled its birth.
But obstacles arise in the path of love. Dora's
father has an aversion to foreigners, and Alessandro
is of mingled Italian and German parentage. He
thinks of worldly substance, as fathers are wont to
do; and Alessandro is simply leader of an orchestra,
and a popular composer of guitar music. There is a
richer lover in question, and the poor musician is sad
with hope deferred, though he leans ever trustfully on
Dora's true heart. He labours diligently in his vocation,
gives lessons day by day, and listens with all
patience to the learner's trip-hammer measurement of
forth in floods of improvised melody. He composes
music industriously, too; but it is for the market, and
slowly and reluctantly the offended tones take their
places per order. Not thus came they in that inspired
song, where love first breathed its bright but timid
joy over vanished doubts and fears. The manuscript
of that melody is laid away, and seldom can the anxious
lover bear its voice.
But two years of patient effort secures his prize.
The loved one has come to his humble home, with
her bridal wreath of jessamine and orange-buds. He
sits at the same window, and the same moon shines
on him; but he is no longer alone. A beautiful head
leans on his breast, and a loving voice says, “Dearest
Alessandro, sing me a song of thine own composing.”
He was at that moment thinking of the rustic seat in
her father's garden, of violets breathing to the moonlight,
of Dora's first bashful confession of love; and
smiling with a happy consciousness, he sought for
the written voice of that blissful hour. But he will
not tell her when it was composed, lest it should not
say so much to her heart, as it does to his. He begins
by singing other songs, which drawing-room
misses love for their tinkling sweetness. Dora listens
well pleased, and sometimes says, “That is pretty,
Alessandro; play it again.” But now comes the
voice of melting, mingling souls. That melody, so
like sunshine, and rainbows, and bird-warbling, after
a summer shower, with rain drops from the guitar at
intervals, and all subsiding into blissful, dreamy moonlight.
Dora leans forward, gazing earnestly in his
that is very beautiful! That is my tune.” “Yes, it
is indeed thy tune,” replied the happy husband; and
when she had heard its history, she knew why it had
seemed so like echoes of her own deepest heart.
Time has passed, and Alessandro sits by Dora's
bed-side, their eyes looking into each other through
happy tears. Their love is crowned with life's deepest,
purest joy, its most heavenly emotion. Their
united lives have re-appeared in a new existence;
and they feel that without this rich experience the
human heart can never know one half its wealth of
love. Long sat the father in that happy stillness, and
wist not that angels near by smiled when he touched
the soft down of the infant's arm, or twined its little
finger over his, and looked his joyful tenderness
into the mother's eyes. The tear-dew glistened on
those long dark fringes, when he took up his guitar
and played the beloved tune. He had spoken no word
to his child. These tones were the first sounds with
which he welcomed her into the world.
A few months glide away, and the little Fioretta
knows the tune for herself. She claps her hands and
crows at sight of the guitar, and all changing emotions
show themselves in her dark melancholy eyes,
and on her little tremulous lips. Play not too sadly,
thou fond musician; for this little soul is a portion of
thine own sensitive being, more delicately tuned. Ah,
see now the grieved lip, and the eyes swimming in
tears! Change, change to a gayer measure! for the
little heart is swelling too big for its bosom. There,
now she laughs and crows again! Yet plaintive music
soon as she can toddle across the room, she welcomes
papa with a shout, and runs to bring the guitar, which
mother must help her carry, lest she break it in her
zeal. If father mischievously tries other tunes than
her favourites, she shakes her little curly head, and
trots her feet impatiently. But when he touches the
first notes he ever played to her, she smiles and listens
seriously, as if she heard her own being prophesied
in music. As she grows older, the little lady
evinces a taste right royal; for she must needs eat her
supper to the accompaniment of sweet sounds. It is
beautiful to see her in her night-gown, seated demurely
in her small arm-chair, one little naked foot unconsciously
beating time to the tune. But if the music
speaks too plaintively, the big tears roll silently down,
and the porringer of milk, all unheeded, pours its
treasures on the floor. Then come smothering kisses
from the happy father and mother, and love-claspings
with her little soft arms. As the three sit thus intertwined,
the musician says playfully, “Ah, this is the
perfect chord!”
Three years pass away, and the scene is changed.
There is discord now where such sweet harmony prevailed.
The light of Dora's eyes is dim with weeping,
and Fioretta “has caught the trick of grief, and
sighs amid her playthings.” Once, when she had
waited long for the beloved father, she ran to him
with the guitar, and he pushed her away, saying angrily,
“Go to bed; why did your mother keep you up
so long?” The sensitive little being, so easily repulsed,
went to her pillow in tears; and after that,
her eye, and in her voice. Hushed now is the beloved
tune. To the unhappy wife it seems a mockery to
ask for it; and Alessandro seldom touches his guitar;
he says he is obliged to play enough for his bread,
without playing for his family at home. At the glee-club
the bright wine has tempted him, and he is slowly
burying heart and soul in the sepulchre of the body.
Is there no way to save this beautiful son of genius
and feeling? Dora at first pleads with him tenderly;
but made nervous with anxiety and sorrow, she at last
speaks words that would have seemed impossible to
her when she was so happy, seated on the rustic
chair, in the moonlighted garden; and then comes
the sharp sorrow, which a generous heart always feels
when it has so spoken to a cherished friend. In such
moments of contrition, memory turns with fond sadness
to the beloved tune. Fioretta, whose little fingers
must stretch wide to reach an octave, is taught to
play it on the piano, while mother sings to her accompaniment,
in their lonely hours. After such seasons,
a tenderer reception always greets the wayward husband;
but his eyes, dulled by dissipation, no longer
perceive the delicate shadings of love in those home
pictures, once so dear to him. The child is afraid of
her father, and this vexes him; so a strangeness has
grown up between the two playmates, and casts a
shadow over all their attempts at joy. One day Alessandro
came home as twilight was passing into evening.
Fioretta had eaten her supper, and sat on her
mother's lap, chatting merrily; but the little clear
voice hushed, as soon as father's step was heard approaching.
motions, and threw himself full length on the
sofa, grumbling that it was devilish dismal there.
Dora answered hastily, “When a man has made his
home dismal, if he don't like it, he had better stay
where he finds more pleasure.” The next moment
she would have given worlds if she had not spoken
such words. Her impulse was to go and fall on his
neck, and ask forgiveness; but he kicked over Fioretta's
little chair with such violence, that the kindly impulse
turned back, and hid itself in her widowed
heart. There sat they silently in the twilight, and
Dora's tears fell on the little head that rested on her
bosom. I know not what spirit guided the child;
perhaps in her busy little heart she remembered how
her favourite sounds used to heighten all love, and
cheer all sorrow: perhaps angels came and took her
by the hand. But so it was, she slipped down from
mother's lap, and scrambling up on the music-stool,
began to play the tune which had been taught her in
private hours, and which the father had not heard for
many months. Wonderfully the little creature touched
the keys with her tiny fingers, and ever and anon her
weak but flexible voice chimed in with a pleasant
harmony. Alessandro raised his head, and looked
and listened. “God bless her dear little soul!” he
exclaimed; “can she play it? God bless her! God
bless her!” He clasped the darling to his breast, and
kissed her again and again. Then seeing the little
overturned chair, once so sacred to his heart, he
caught it up, kissed it vehemently, and burst into a
flood of tears. Dora threw her arms round him, and
so unkindly.” He pressed her hand, and answered
in a stifled voice, “Forgive me, Dora. God bless the
little angel! Never again will father push away her
little chair.” As they stand weeping on each other's
necks, two little soft arms encircle their knees, and a
small voice says, “Kiss Fietta.” They raise her up,
and fold her in long embraces. Alessandro carries
her to her bed, as in times of old, and says cheerfully,
“No more wine, dear Dora; no more wine. Our
child has saved me.”
But when discord once enters a domestic paradise,
it is not easily dispelled. Alessandro occasionally
feels the want of the stimulus to which he has become
accustomed, and the corroding appetite sometimes
makes him gloomy and petulant. Dora does not
make sufficient allowance for this, and her own nature
being quick and sensitive, she sometimes gives
abrupt answers, or betrays impatience by hasty motions.
Meanwhile Alessandro is busy, with some secret
work. The door of his room is often locked, and
Dora is half displeased that he will not tell her why;
but all her questions he answers only with a kiss and
a smile. And now the Christmas morning comes,
and Fioretta rises bright and early to see what Santa
Claus has put in her stocking. She comes running
with her apron full, and gives mother a package, on
which is written, “A merry Christmas and a Happy
New Year to my beloved wife.” She opens it, and
reads “Dearest Dora, I have made thee a music-box.
When I speak hastily to my loved ones, I pray thee
wind it up; and when I see the spark kindling in thy
teach patience unto love.” Dora winds up the musicbox,
and lo, a spirit sits within, playing the beloved
tune! She puts her hand within her husband's, and
they look at each other with affectionate humility.
But neither of them speak the resolution they form,
while the voice of their early love falls on their ears,
like the sounds of a fairy guitar.
Memory, thus aided, does teach patience unto love.
No slackened string now sends discord through the
domestic tune. Fioretta is passing into maidenhood,
beautiful as an opening flower. She practises
on the guitar, while the dear good father sits with
his arm across her chair, singing from a manuscript
tune of her own composing. In his eyes, this first effort
of her genius cannot seem otherwise than beautiful.
Ever and anon certain notes occur, and they
look at each other and smile, and Dora smiles also.
“Fioretta could not help bringing in that theme,” she
says, “for it was sung to her in her cradle.” The
father replies, “But the variations are extremely pretty
and tasteful;” and a flush of delight goes over the
expressive face of his child. The setting sun glances
across the guitar, and just touches a rose in the maiden's
bosom. The happy mother watches the dear
group earnestly, and sketches rapidly on the paper
before her. And now she, too, works privately in her
own room, and has a secret to keep. On Fioretta's
fifteenth birth-day, she sends by her hands, a covered
present to the father. He opens it and finds a lovely
picture of himself and daughter, the rose and the
guitar. The sunlight glances across them in a bright
as with a golden finger, the few beloved notes,
which had made them smile. As the father shrined
within his divine art the memory of their first hour
of mutual love, so the mother has embalmed in her
beautiful art the first musical echo from the heart of
their child.
But now the tune of life passes into a sadder mode.
Dora, pale and emaciated, lies propped up with pillows,
her hand clasped within Fioretta's, her head
resting on her husband's shoulder.
All is still—still. Their souls are kneeling reverently
before the Angel of Death. Heavy sunset
guns from a neighbouring fort, boom through the air.
The vibrations shake the music-box, and it starts up
like a spirit, and plays the cherished tune. Dora
presses her daughter's hand, and she, with a faint
smile, warbles the words they have so often sung.
The dying one looks up to Alessandro, with a deep
expression of unearthly tenderness. Gazing thus,
with one long-drawn sigh, her affectionate soul floats
away on the wings of that ethereal song. The memory
that taught endurance unto love leaves a luminous
expression, a farewell glory, on the lifeless
countenance. Attendant angels smile, and their
blessing falls on the mourners' hearts, like dew from
heaven. Fioretta remains to the widowed one, the
graceful blossom of his lonely life, the incarnation
of his beloved tune.
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