The Orange Girl, Page 6

  CHAPTER IV

  LOVE AND MUSIC

  You need not be told how I lived for the next three or four years. Itook what came. Pride remained in pocket. I fiddled a wedding-party tochurch and home again. I fiddled the Company of Fellowship Portersthrough the streets when they held their yearly feast. I fiddled forsailors; I fiddled at beanfeasts; I fiddled for Free Masons; I fiddledin taverns; I fiddled here and there and everywhere, quite unconcerned,even though I was playing in the gallery of a City company's hall, andactually saw my cousin sitting in state among the guests at the feastbelow, and knew that he saw me and rejoiced at the sight, in hisignorance of the consolations of music.

  Nothing in those days came amiss to me. One who makes music for hislivelihood has no cause to be ashamed of playing for anyone. It does notseem an occupation such as one would choose, to spend the evening in achair, stuck in a corner out of the way, in a stinking room, for roughfellows to dance hornpipes: the work does not lift up the soul to thelevel which Tom Shirley claimed for the musician. But this was only thepot-boiling work. I had the mornings to myself, when I could practiseand attempt composition. Besides, at eighteen, the present, if onebelongs to a calling which has a career, is of very little importance:the real life lies before: the boy lives for the future. I was going, inthose days, to be a great composer like Handel. I was going to writeoratorios such as his: majestic, where majesty was wanted: tender, wherelove and pity must be depicted: devout, where piety was called for. Iwould write, besides, in my ambition, such things as were written byPurcell and Arne: anthems for the church: songs and madrigals and roundsand catches such as those with which my patron Tom Shirley delighted hisworld.

  The profession of music is one which can only be followed by those whohave the gift of music. That is the definition of any Art: it can onlybe followed by those who have the gift of that Art. In any other callinga man may serve after a fashion, who hath not been called thereto. Manymen, for example, are divines who have neither learning nor eloquencenor--the Lord help them!--religion. Many lawyers have no love for thelaw. Many merchants hate the counting-house. But in music no one canserve at all unless he is a musician born. He who, without the gift,would try to enter the profession breaks down at the outset, seeing thathe cannot even learn to play an instrument with feeling, ease, orjudgment. Nay, there are distinct ranks of music, to each of which oneis raised by Nature, as much as by study. Thus, you have at the bottom,the rank and file, namely, those who can play a single instrument: next,those who can compose and make simple music for songs, in which all thatis wanted is a tuneful and spirited air with an ordinary accompaniment:next those who understand harmony and can make music of a highercharacter, such as anthems, part-songs, and so forth. Lastly, you havethe composer in whose brains lies the knowledge of every instrument inthe orchestra. He is the King of musicians: from him come the nobleoratorios which delight our age and lift our souls to Heaven: from himcome the masses which are sung--I have the scores of several--inCathedrals of Roman Catholic countries. It is not for an Englishman toadmire aught that belongs to Rome: but we must at least concede to theRoman Catholic the possession of noble music.

  This, then, was my ambition. For four years I continued to live with myfriend Tom Shirley. I held no communication with my father or any of myown people. None of them made any attempt at reconciliation. I believethey were honestly ashamed of me. The new friends I made were good andfaithful: musical people have ever kindly hearts, and are loyal to eachother: they do not backbite: there is no room for envy where one manplays the fiddle and another the cornet: we are all a company ofbrothers.

  The time came when it was no longer necessary for me to play at tavernsfor the sailors: when I was no longer compelled to attend weddings. Iobtained, one after the other, two posts, neither of which was a verygreat thing, but both together made it possible for me to live in somecomfort. The first was that of organist at St. George's in the Borough.I had to attend the service and to play the organ twice on Sunday: theweek day services and the Gift Lectures were conducted without anysinging. The Church contains, I believe, the most fashionablecongregation of South London, and therefore the most critical. I do notthink, however, that, while I sat in the organ-loft, they had any reasonto complain either of music or of choir. There sat with me in theorgan-loft, Alice, who possessed a sweet, clear, and strong voice: herbrother Tom, who brought into the choir an excellent tenor: Mr. Ramage,one of my father's clerks, who lodged behind the Marshal-sea, gave us abass of indifferent quality, though he was now past fifty. Half a dozenboys and girls from the Charity School, of no great account for voices,made up our choir. I believe it was better than the average, and I thinkthat people came on Sunday morning on purpose to hear the organ and thesinging.

  Mr. Ramage, or Ramage, as he was called in the Counting-house, where notitle is allowed to any below the rank of partner or partner's son, keptme acquainted with events in College Street and on the wharf. My father,it was understood, never mentioned my name: the business of the Firm wasnever more flourishing: Mr. Matthew was constantly called in forconsultations. 'And oh! Master Will,' my old friend always concluded,'be reconciled. What is it--to give up playing the organ at Church?Why--it is nothing. Someone else will play while you sit in state inyour red velvet pew below. Give way to your father. He is a hard man,but he is just.'

  It also appeared from Mr. Ramage's information that it was perfectlywell known by the clerks and by Mr. Matthew, who doubtless told myfather, the ways by which I had been making a living: I had been seen byone marching ahead of a sailor's wedding-party: by another fiddling inthe Bermondsey Tavern: by a third in the Gallery of a City Company Hall.The Counting-house down to the messengers was humiliated: there was butone feeling among the clerks: I had brought disgrace upon the House.

  'They are sorry, Master Will, for your father's sake. It is hard forhim: so proud a man--with so much to be proud of--a quarter of amillion, some say. Think how hard it is for him.'

  'It is harder for me Ramage,' I replied, 'to be driven to fiddle forsailors, when all I ask is to be allowed to follow music in peace.However, tell the clerks that I am sorry to have disgraced them.'

  Disgraced the clerks! What did I say? Why, theirs is the lowest kind ofwork that the world can find for men. They were disgraced because theirMaster's son played the fiddle for a living. But I could not afford toconsider their opinions.

  Ramage knew nothing about my other place, or his entreaties would havebeen more fervent. I had but one answer, however. I could not give upthe only work that I cared for, even to be reconciled to my father. Why,I was born for music. Shall a man fly in the face of Providence, andscorn the gifts with which he is endowed?

  My other place was none other than second fiddle, Tom Shirley being thefirst fiddle, of the _Dog and Duck_.

  I have mentioned the Pleasure Gardens south of the River. There are, asLondoners know very well, a great many such gardens, all alike in mostrespects. That is to say, there is in every one of them an avenue orwalk, lined by trees which at night are festooned by thousands of lightsin coloured glass lamps hanging from tree to tree. There is also in mosta piece of water with swans or ducks upon it, and all round it arbourswhere the company take tea or punch or wine. There is a tavern wheredrink may be had: suppers are served in the evening: there is a floorfor dancing in the open air with a place for the band; and there is aLong Room with an organ at one end where the company promenade andlisten, and where on hot nights the band and the singers perform. Inmany gardens there is also a bowling-green: there is sometimes aswimming bath, and in most there is a chalybeate spring the water ofwhich is warranted to cure anything, but especially rheumatism, gout,and the King's evil.

  Every one of these gardens employs an orchestra, and engages theservices of singers. The number of musicians employed is thereforeconsiderable. There are certainly in the south of London alone more thana dozen Gardens large enough to have a band. Beside the _Dog and Duck_,there are the _Temple of Flora_: the Lambeth Wells: the C
umberlandGardens: Vauxhall Gardens: Bermondsey Spa: St. Helena Gardens: Finch'sGrotto: Cupid's Gardens: Restoration Spring Gardens--is not that twelve?And there are more. So that it is not difficult for a young man who canplay any instrument tolerably to get a place in the orchestra of someGarden.

  One would not choose such a position if Fortune gave one a choice. Atthe Dog and Duck there are visitors to whose pleasure we should beashamed of ministering: people whose proper place is the House ofCorrection or Bridewell: they are allowed to attend these gardens withfriends who should also be denied entrance: they make the company noisyand disorderly. We gave them music that was a great deal better thanthey deserved: it was thrown away upon the majority: we gave them songsthat were innocent and tender--Tom Shirley wrote and composed themhimself: we also had to give them other songs more suited to their grossand grovelling tastes.

  It was part of Tom's humour to speak of the audience at the Dog and Duckas the most polite, fashionable, and aristocratic assembly in the world.He declared that their taste in music was excellent: their attentionthat of a connoisseur: and their appreciation of his own songs all thathe could desire. I asked him once how he reconciled these things withtheir delight in the comic songs which were also provided for them. 'Thearistocracy,' he said, 'must from time to time, unbend: they must fromtime to time, laugh: they laugh and they unbend when we give them a songto which in their more polite moments they would refuse to listen.' Iknew very well that the company was chiefly composed of deboshedprofligates: prentices who daily robbed their masters in order to cometo the gardens: young gentlemen from the country; prodigal sons from theTemple and Lincoln's Inn; and tradesmen who were dissipating theircapital. If good music was played they talked and laughed: at thesinging of good songs they walked about or left the open platform forthe dark lanes of the garden. 'You are lucky, Will,' said Tom. 'To playfor such an audience brings good luck, with name and fame and riches.'

  It brought me fifteen shillings a week. And as for name and fame I neverheard of either.

  I did not propose to write my own history, but that of a woman to whomyou have already seen me conversing. Yet my own history must beunderstood before hers can be related. You have been told how for myobstinate adherence to music I was turned out of my father's house: howI found a refuge: how I earned my livelihood by playing the fiddle. Now,before I come to the events which connected my fortunes with those ofthe lady whom I call my mistress--and that with my wife's consent--Imust tell one or two events which befell me. The first of them was mycourtship and my marriage. In the courtship there was no obstacle: thecourse of true love ran smoothly: in my marriage there were no regrets:no discords: always a full deep current of affection on both sides. Asimple, plain story, in which nothing happened, so far: would to Heaventhat nothing had happened, afterwards.

  When a young man and girl live under the same roof: when they share thesame interests: when they have the same affections--Alice herself couldnot love her brother more than I did: when the home is happy in spite ofpoverty and its restrictions: when the hearts of the two go out to eachother spontaneously, then the time must come when they will resolve uponbecoming brother and sister or declared and open lovers.

  When I think of this time, this truly happy time, I sometimes feel as ifwe were too hurried over it. I sat beside Alice every morning atbreakfast and at dinner: I played to her: I composed songs for her: Ieven wrote verses for the music--I have some of them still, and really,though I do not pretend to be a poet, there are things in them which Iadmire. Poets always speak of the warblers in the grove: so did I.Love, which rhymes to grove, always burns and flames--did so in myverses. As to the rhymes, I abolished the first and third, which was agreat relief. Without the necessity of rhyming one could easily become apoet.

  I say that the situation being so pleasant and so happy, I might haveprolonged it: but there comes a time when a man must take the last step.The uncertainty is sweet. Can she love me? Will she perhaps say nay? Yetthe pleasing pain, the charming smart, the raptured flames--I quote frommy own verses which were really like many that I have seen used insongs--become in time too much: one must perforce go on to secure thehappiness beyond.

  In the morning, when the weather was fine, we would walk abroad amongthe fields and gardens that lie stretched out behind the river bank:some of them are pretty gardens, each with its hedge and bushes filledwith flowers in the summer: garden houses stand about here and there:windmills vary the landskip: the lanes are shaded by trees: at the endof one is a great stone barn, formerly part of King Richard's Palace, ofwhich not another stone is left. Beside the river are Lambeth Palace andLambeth Church with a few fishermen's cottages. Over this rural place westrayed at our will, now among the lanes; picking wild flowers;recalling scraps of songs; listening to the skylark, while the freshbreeze coming up the river with the tide fanned Alice's cheek andheightened the soft colour which was one of her charms. Sometimes weleft the fields and walked along the high Embankment watching the ladenbarges slowly going up or down and the sailing tilt-boats bound forRichmond: or the fishermen in mid-stream with their nets: or thewherries plying with their fares and the swans: admiring, in a word, thelife and animation of the river at Westminster and above it. Chiefly,however, Alice loved the fields, where in the morning we were alwaysalone save for a gardener here and there at work. Since the life thatshe saw around her was such as she saw--made up of debtors' prisons,noisy duck-hunters, prize-fighters and drunken profligates, what wonderif she loved to linger where she was apart from the vileness of men andwomen? To meditate: to muse: to sing all alone, for my companionshipcounted nothing: was her greatest joy. So it has continued: even now sheloves to wander alone beneath the trees--they are other trees underanother sky--and lift up her voice to Heaven, which answers by givingher thoughts, always new and always holy.

  It was in the middle of May, the poet's month, when we were thus roamingin the fields. Alice carried a handful of hawthorn. She sang as shewent. Dear Heart! how she sang! Yet I know not what. It was Prayer: itwas Praise: it was Adoration: it was Worship: I know not what she sang.The larks were dumb because they could not sing with her.

  It was the time of which I have spoken--the time of uncertainty. Neverhad Alice looked so heavenly sweet: she carried her hat by the strings:her hair fell about her shoulders--fair, soft hair, like silk, with atouch of gold in it: her eyes gazed upwards when the light clouds flewacross the blue, as if they were things of this world trying to turn hereyes and thoughts away from the things of Heaven. I could endure thedoubt no longer. I laid my arm about her waist: the song was troubled:her eyes dropped. 'Oh!' she said. 'What wilt thou?' I drew her closer.The song broke off. I kissed her head, her brow, her lips. We saidnothing. She sang no more. But the larks began their hymns of joy: theclouds passed: the sun came out in splendour: the hedges seemed all toburst together into blossom.

  Thus it was--so easily--so sweetly--did we pass into the condition oflovers. Yet we had been lovers all the time.