~ finding the right voice ~
ELL me your story from its very beginning, Des Grieux," said he, interrupting me; "and how you got to be acquainted with him. ""It was at a grand charity concert where he was playing; for though amateur performances are one of the many plagues of modern civilization, still, my mother being one of the lady patronesses, I felt it incumbent to be present. ""But he was not an amateur, was he? ""Oh, no! Still at that time he was only just beginning to make a name. ""Well, go on. ""He had already sat down at the piano when I got to my stalle d'orchestre. The first thing he played was a favourite gavotte of mine--one of those slight, graceful, and easy melodies that seem to smell of lavande ambrée, and in some way or other put you in mind of Lulli and Watteau, of powdered ladies dressed in yellow satin gowns, flirting with their fans. ""And then? ""As he reached the end of the piece, he cast several sidelong glances towards--as I thought--the lady patroness. When he was about to rise, my mother--who was seated behind me--tapped me on my shoulder with her fan, only to make one of the many unseasonable remarks women are for ever pestering you with, so that, by the time I had turned round to applaud, he had disappeared. ""And what happened afterwards? ""Let me see. I think there was some singing. ""But did he not play any more? ""Oh, yes! He came out again towards the middle of the concert. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit. It was then--as I thought--that our glances met for the first time. ""What kind of a man was he? ""He was a rather tall and slight young man of twenty-four. His hair, short and curled--after the fashion Bressan, the actor, had brought into vogue--was of a peculiar ashy hue; but this--as I knew afterwards--was due to its being always imperceptibly powdered. Anyhow, the fairness of his hair contrasted with his dark eyebrows and his short moustache. His complexion was of that warm, healthy paleness which, I believe, artists often have in their youth. His eyes--though generally taken for black--were of a deep blue colour; and although they ever appeared so quiet and serene, still a close observer would every now and then have seen in them a scared and wistful look, as if he were gazing at some dreadful dim and distant vision. An expression of the deepest sorrow invariably succeeded this painful glamour. ""And what was the reason of his sadness? ""At first, whenever I asked him, he always shrugged his shoulders, and answered laughingly, 'Do you never see ghosts? ' When I got to be on more intimate terms with him, his invariable reply was--'My fate; that horrible, horrible fate of mine! ' But then, smiling and arching his eyebrows, he always hummed, 'Non ci pensiam. '""He was not of a gloomy or brooding disposition, was he? ""No, not at all; he was only very superstitious. ""As all artists, I believe. ""Or rather, all persons like--well, like ourselves; for nothing renders people so superstitious as vice----""Or ignorance. ""Oh! that is quite a different kind of superstition. ""Was there any peculiar dynamic quality in his eyes? "