Part 12 (2/2)

In distinction also to the calm, quiet manner of the other, she was vivacious, quick and spritely; was fond of conversation, but no matter how trivial the subject of discourse, it grew into earnestness in her mind unless she was wholly playful. But her chief distinction was her love and talent for music, and in the capacity of beautiful singer she was first introduced to us.

I cannot tell how this pure soul first took to the sublime idea of society founded on justice to all, the Christianity of the idea, and the truths of industry, or how the idea came to her that in this one way and only in this one way could the kingdom of G.o.d prayed for for eighteen centuries, come to us on earth; but I think it was born in her as jewels are born in the earth, and sparkle when they come to the sun.

But this I know, that when they took possession of her she could not withstand their power, more than Saint Paul could the heavenly influences that brought his Jewish heart to love all, and live and die for all the races of G.o.d's humanity. Friends, relatives, companions, were opposed to her visits among the Brook Farmers. It was intimated to her that there were suspicious persons residing there. She bravely pinned her informers to facts; she made searching inquiries, and, convincing herself, boldly stood by the idea and the Brook Farmers as living symbols of a better and more Christian life, and triumphed over all in her sublime truthfulness and dignity.

How willing and ready she was to acknowledge her trivial failures! How ready to do for all such kindness as came in her sphere to do, and how quick she was to comprehend great truths. Untied from the dead letter that killeth, she was overflowing with its pure spirit that gave its abundant life, rich, full and charming, to all around her.

One of the young poets of the farm many years ago paid this graceful tribute to her charms:--

OF MARY BULLARD.

Dearly love I to be near her-- Though thought of her is not dearer Than friends.h.i.+p may say.

Yet around will I hover; Bringing joy like a lover, To brighten her day.

Ever am I lingering near her-- Her whole soul seems to me clearer Than others that are.

And her love-lighted blue eye, When an aching heart is nigh, Beams forth like a star.

It's good for me to be near her-- Should she e'er sorrow, to cheer her Out of her sad moods; Her dark path to make lighter, And behold it grow brighter Like sunlight through woods.

Still stay I lovingly near her, Enraptured--sometimes I fear her Soul is on its wings-- And ask will it yet return?-- Seems it so pure, so lost and gone, Whenever she sings.

Lingering and waiting near her-- The words that she speaks are dearer Than birds' songs in May.

With sweet thoughts will I surround her, As on the day I first found her, Forever--for aye.

I have been particular in my description of this lady and friend, because they became the encouragers of the later movement in Boston, where those who remained true to the Brook Farm ideas formed themselves into a society of zealots to propagate the faith, she giving her splendid talents and her warm enthusiasm freely to the movement, and because they were as truly united with us as if enrolled as members on the farm.

It was in the latter part of the month of January that we had the fulfilment of a promise of a long visit from the fair singer. The winter had grown cold and stormy; the white snow covered the fields, and at times we gleefully slid down the hills over its frozen crust on sleds and improvised vehicles. And there were days of transcendent beauty. I remember especially, a solitary visit to the pine woods after a deep snow storm, and the lifelong impression of it remains.

The evergreens were bowed heavily with the weight of the snow, and across the wood path birches and various trees bent as if in prayer, obstructing the way. The clear air, which was not very cold--for it was one of those subdued days of winter, when the glare of the sun was obstructed by a cloudy mantle--the intense quiet, the strong contrasts of the dark trunks of trees with the heavy evergreens, and the immaculate purity of whiteness laid on by the greatest and sublimest painter were so marked and so lovely that I seemed to be drinking the nectar of the G.o.d of beauty, and was soul-subdued.

Up to the Eyry in the evening, I went with others to hear the singing, when Mary, ”the nightingale,”--as we sometimes called her--came. I went often and stayed long. Some were at the Hive, reading; some were, perhaps, engaged in Shakespeare; some in their rooms with their families; some at the Cottage practising the piano, and all ”following their attractions,” to use our common phrase, in their own little sphere--whether it was reading the papers and journals of the day in the improvised reading-room at the Hive, or commenting on the last articles in the _Harbinger,_ or doing a little work out of hours for amus.e.m.e.nt or profit, or attending one of the interminable number of meetings for consultation and arrangement held almost nightly.

There the quartette sang the ”Kyrie,” and ”Gloria in Excelsis” from the ma.s.ses of Mozart and Haydn. An edition had just been published and forwarded from London, and by degrees they became familiar to us as household words. Did it not seem strange, you may ask, that these radical thinkers and ”come-outers” from ordinary forms of society, should turn with pleasure to the emanations of a profoundly conservative church? I answer that, having freed their minds from sectarian prejudices, they recognized beauty and genius wherever found, and did not care what church or creed they had served, so that they found the gift of beauty from the infinite Father to man in them. With one glorious soprano voice and boundless talent, how much of joy was added to the circle! How we revelled in the choice creations of the masters of harmony, and how, slowly but surely, the missing link that was wanting in my mind to realize that music could cover the void that separated sound from feeling, came to its place--I am tempted to tell.

The sweet songstress was asked to sing. Did she make excuses? Of course she would do so to follow traditional usage. She must have a slight cold, she must think she won't, must be coaxed, and then--why, do it with a grace. 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.

One day it began again to snow; a million feathers from the frost king's fleece were flying in the air. It snowed all day, and in the evening it snowed and whirled and blew around the Eyry, with its little party of choice spirits in its cosy parlor making merry and singing.

Perhaps it was the ”Wood Robin,” or the ”Skylark,” or one of Colcott's glees, or one of Mendelssohn's two-part songs, or Schubert's ”Serenade,” or Beethoven's ”Adelaide”; or maybe an interlude of piano, one of Mozart's Sonatas, or ”Der Freyschutz,” and then a Kyrie, Dona n.o.bis, Gloria, or Agnus Dei, one or all, until it was time to retire.

And still it snowed and snowed.

From the Eyry parlor I would go to my quarters in the greenhouse, and there the old man would be anxious for the flowers, that the fire be neither too hot nor too cold, and with a long story to tell me of manners and customs of his youth in Denmark--some of them quaint and strange enough--would slowly finish out the evening, and it was often midnight before we retired.

All the next day it snowed, and piled up its pure whiteness over every projecting thing, whirling and tossing its feathers about, unlike anything else in nature, and at night it snowed still. It snowed steadily for three days and nights, but when the fourth morning broke, it was on one of the clearest and most beautiful days ever known and to my surprise I awoke full of renewed cheerfulness and physically like my former self. The youthful storm of my life was over.

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