But here was a woman so touched with the divine fire of
genius and truth, that no excuse came from her lips. She was always
ready if you desired it. In her I first learned that music was not a
put-on art, an accomplishment, but the outpouring of soul.
One evening when our little party was being filled with music, and the
quartette had bravely sung Rossini's "Prayer in Egypt," with the grand
vigor and expression that the soprano put into it, she exclaimed with
feeling, "How beautiful that is!" From that moment I understood what
music meant. She had translated it for me. But instead of inspiring me
with joy, it made me sad. It aroused that terrible feeling,
"consciousness of self." It waked me to new ideas of duty and destiny,
to wondrous thoughts and aspirations; and they would not down at my
bidding. Over and over again I tried to banish them, but the inward and
spiritual ear was open, and the sad strains of Schubert's "Elegy of
Tears," and "The Wanderer," and the "Ave Maria," seemed my sorrow, my
wanderings and my prayers. Sadness was not my nature; I was as cheerful
as the bird that sings, save a mighty something which clung to me and
overshadowed me like the enormous wings of a terrible genius.
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