The Corvallis gazette. [volume] (Corvallis, Or.) 1862-1899, 1894-12-14

NY extreme limit of the Eau
@IA bourg st. German, and end
Wy ing in one of those mag
nificent boulevards which
radiate about des Invalides. 1t was
one of those very rare Partisan by
ways where there is not single
shop. I do not know a more tranquil
spot. Several gardens, enclosed in
long low, walls overhung with branch
es, shed over the deserted street in
May the delicate odor of lilacs; in
June, the heavier perfume of elder
flower and acacias.
Among these was one abode even
more isolated than the others. When
the porte cochere opened to admit a
landau or coupe, the pedestrian (who
heard the echo of his steps on the
sidewalk) saw only a gravelled road.
bordered with hedge which turned
abruptly toward a house hidden amid
the verdure 1t would have been diff
ficult to find a corner more secluded.
The place contained neither gardners
house nor porters lodge,-nothing but
that nest in the foliage.
One could not glance at this bower
without thinking, "How happy one
could be here 'solus cum sola' with
grande passion"
For the pavilion was inhabited. The
garden, gay with flowers, always
carefully attended to, was a proof of
that. In winter, the smoke from the
chirnneys rose to the gray sky, and
in the evening a light shone dimly
behind the thick curtains, always
closely drawn. Several times I saw
going or coming through the lattice
door an old servant in sombre livery,
and with a circumspect, even sus-
picious, air. Evidently I should gain
nothing by interrogating him. Be-
sides, what right had I to trouble
with vain curiosity the unknown host
or hosts of the closed house?
I respected their secret, but the
enigmatical dwelling continued to ex-
ercise for me its singular attraction.
One July night, a sitting night, un-
der dark, heavy sky, I came home
about II o'clock, and, according to
my usual habit, mechanically turned
my steps so as to pass before the
mysterious pavilion. The little street,
lighted only by three gas jets far
apart, which f1ickered in the heated
air, was absolutely deserted. Not a
leaf stirred on the trees in the garden.
All nature was dumb in the quiet
which precedes a storm.
was in front of the pavilion, when
some notes were struck on a piano
within and echoed in the motionless
air. I noticed with surprise that,
doubtless because of the heat, two of
the windows were partly open,
though not enough for one to see the
interior Of the apartment. Suddenly
a woman's voice, a soprano Of won
derful sweetness and power, burst
forth upon the silence of the night.
She sang a short melody, of strange
rhythm and the most touching mel
ancholy, in which I OWNED instinct
lively a popular air, one of those flow
ers Of primitive music which are never
gathered in the gardens raked by
professional maestri. Yes, it certain
ly was a folk-song, but of what coun-
try? I did not recognize the tongue
in which the words were written,
but felt there the plaintive inspira-
ton, and fancied that I detected i'll
them the sad spirit of the North. The
air was thrilling, the voice sublime.
1t hardly lasted two minutes, but
never felt in all my life such a deep
musical sensa ton, and long after the
song had died away, felt still vi
brating within me the final melodious
note, sharp, penetrating, sad, like a
long cry of pain. 1 remained there
for long time in the hope Of hearing
that delicious voice again, but sud-
denly a storm burst upon the city.
The wind shock the trees. / felt a
large drop of rain on my hand. I
was obliged to make all haste to get
home.
Some days afterward I was in the
Casino at Dieppe with some jolly
companions, ard took part in an ami
mated discussion upon music. I
praised popular airs, which spring
spontaneously from an innocent SEN
timent In aid Of my theory, re-
lated my adventure.
"What do you think of this air?'
asked Prince Kha,off, a young Rus
sian with whom I was very intimate.
II shall never forget it," said warm
ly. I proceeded to sing it Indifferent
ly well.
"Well," replied the young prince,
you can congratulate yourself, my
dear sir, In having had such a rare
treat. That melody is a song CT the
sailors of Dronthe;m, away out in
Norway, and the bee eutiful voice must
have been that of Stolberg, with
whom we were all in love two years
ago, when she made her debut in st.
Petersburg,-t Stolberg who was
the rival of her cclnt-ywoman Nil
sson, and who would have become one
of the greatest singers of the century
If she had not been suddenly
snatched from art, from the stage,
from success of all kinds by her love
for Count Basil LObanof, at that
time my comrade in the Guards, when
we were both cornets in the cavalry.
Yes, for two years we were without
news CT Basil. He had given up his |
and left Russia without
saying adieu to any one. And we
only knew vaguely that he had hid |
den himself in Paris with his wife;
but we were ignorant of the place of |
mis- retreat, until you now revealed |
It by chance"
$50" said I, ''the wonderfully gift |
ID artist has renounced everything |
or a little love affair.""
"Say rather for great passionr'
.ried the prince. although very
young, Stolberg had had numerous
iirtations when she met Lobanof. I
vas there in the green room on the
when Basil-who, 1 should
ell you, is as handsome as a god
vas presented to her, and saw the