Winthrop. He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and
Beethoven's Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening,
when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three
hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests. As usual, I sat a silent
listener, comprehending readily a good many things that were said; but
some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth. I found Mr.
Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his
phlegmatic appearance, surprised me. He seemed thoroughly acquainted
with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop
listened to his remarks with deference. Before the evening closed Mr.
Winthrop asked him for some music. He complied so readily that I fell to
contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a
rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends' desire for music,
and their own vanity at the same time. I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling
back into his favorite position in his arm-chair--his head thrown back
and eyes closed. Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding
her eyes from the light. I discovered afterward it was merely a pretext
to conceal the emotion Mr. Bovyer usually awakened when she listened to
his music.
His first touch on the piano arrested me, and I turned around to watch
his face. I recognized the air--the opening passage from Haydn's
Creation. I was soon spellbound, as were all the rest. Mrs. Flaxman laid
down her fan; there were no melting passages to bring tears in this
symphony, descriptive of primeval darkness, and confusion of the
elements, the evil spirits hurrying away from the glad, new light into
their native regions of eternal night--the thunder and storm and
elemental terrors.
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