Book 4 Chapter 2 of The Heavenly Twins It was thought at first that the Dean's intimacy with the new tenor arose from a sense of duty sharpened by the feeling of self-reproach with which he had regarded his fancied neglect of the old one, but however that might have been, it was continued from a genuine liking for the man himself. No one in morning quest knew the tenor half so well as the Dean did. No one could have had a truer regard for him, or watched the passing of his trouble with more affectionate interest, or noted the change for the better, which had been wrought by the regular occupation of those peaceful days with greater satisfaction. The Dean knew the tenor's story, so that their relations might be called confidential, but for two years no illusion had been made by either of them to the past. Neither had any plans been formed for the future. At the end of that time, however, the Dean noticed signs of awakening energy in his friend. The tenor performed his duties less mechanically, his apathy was broken by fits of restlessness, he had found the mornings long lately, he had thought the afternoons objectless, and when evening came and the lamps were lighted, he worried of his books and music and chafed a little for something, not change exactly. But he was conscious of a desire, and this he only felt at times, a desire for some trifling human interest, which should make the life he was leading fuller. He had awakened, in fact, from his long lethargy, and found himself alone. The Dean of Morning Quest was a remarkable man. He had the fine physique, the high breathing, and the scholarly reputation common to that order of divines who keep up the dignity of the church without doing much for Christianity. In person he was tall, but stooped from the shoulders. He had white hair, a fine intellectual face, fresh, and with that young look in it which has been called saint-like, and is only seen on the faces of those in whom passion has not died a natural death as the vital powers decay, but has been brought into subjection and made to do good work instead of evil. No man consorted more habitually with his equals, or seldom or entertained the notion that there were such people in the world as his inferiors. He practiced his religion to the last letter of church law, and worshipped Christ the Son of God, but there is no doubt that he would have turned his exclusive back on Christ the carpenter's son, and had him prosecuted for an imposter had he presented himself with no better pedigree. He could tell the story of the Saviour's sufferings with infinite pathos because he knew who the Saviour was, but he could not have told the same story with the same power had the hero of it been merely one common man sacrificing his life for others. What affected the Dean was the enormous condescension. It was the greatness of the man, not the greatness of the deed, that appealed to him. A poor tradesman might sacrifice his life nobly also, but then what is the life of a tradesman comparatively speaking? People called the Dean proud and worldly wise, but this was not true of him. He may have believed that all the people of Palestine belonged to county families, and were therefore called the chosen people, but he never said so. A certain gentle humility of demeanor always distinguished him, no matter to whom he spoke, and he was without doubt a thoroughly good 19th century church man, living at his own level, of course, and true to his caste, toward the weaknesses of which he exercised much charity and forbearance, while he expressed his condemnation of its sins by rigorously excluding from his family circle any member of it who had been openly convicted of disgraceful conduct, just as he excluded professional men and other common citizens when they held no official position, which he was obliged to recognize, and were not connected with the landed gentry. But these were the characteristics of his position, for as a Dean he was required to be the slave of precedent, as a man, however, he was known to be just and generous, and an excellent good friend to all who had any claim upon him, from the bishop who governed him down to the humblest chorister in the cathedral which he governed. It was in the early spring when the Dean first noticed what he took to be a change for the better in the tenor's attitude toward life at large. The Dean was susceptible himself to kindly changes in the season, so much so. Indeed, that, contrary to all precedent, he allowed himself to be tempted out after dark one night into the close by the balmy mildness of the weather. His mind had been running all day upon the tenor, and, noticing as he passed his little house that the blind was up, and the sitting room window wide open, showing the lamplit interior, and the object of his thoughts pacing restlessly to and fro. He determined to go in and have a chat. The tenor received him cordially, but his manner was somewhat absent, and for a wonder the conversation flagged. Are you well, the Dean asked at last. You look somewhat fatigued. I think, and pale. Yes, I am well, thank you, the tenor answered, brushing his hand back over his forehead and hair. A gesture, which was habitual, but I fancy, he added, smiling, that I am beginning to be a little. He did not know what. Ah, said the Dean, looking at him with the grave, critical air of an anxious physician, and ruminating before he pronounced his diagnosis. You have shown most extraordinary perseverance in the course of life, you marked out for yourself. He finally observed. And I trust your resolution is well recompensed by having obtained for you that peace of mind which you sought. But there is one thing I should like to be permitted to point out to you. I do not venture to advise, because, in the first place, it is always a difficult matter to decide on what would be the best for another man's welfare. And, in the second, the Dean always spoke with great deliberation, a man who has proved himself so capable of acting with prudence and determination, so competent to judge. And so firm in carrying out his convictions as you have been might well consider advice from anyone presumptuous, and therefore, I am merely going to observe that. Lately, it has seemed to me to be a pity that your life should continue much longer to be a life of inaction, I hope. And indeed I think that the years you have spent so well in this quiet way have been even more beneficial than you yourself imagine. That they have not only reconciled you to life, but have given you back the confidence and energy which should belong to your character and abilities, and the ambition to succeed in the world which should belong to your age. For some time past it has seemed to me that you are more restless than you used to be, and I have fancied. Indeed I may say I have hoped that you are at last beginning too long for change. The tenor said silent and thoughtful for a while. No, he began at last. I do not even yet long for change. As you would understand the longing, I have begun to feel a want, though I scarcely know of what, of companionship, perhaps of some new interest. But I have no inclination for any change that would take me away from here. After the storm I pass through, this place has been for me a perfect haven of rest. Now that my peace of mind has returned to me, do you think it would be wise, by any voluntary act, to alter the present course of my life, seeing that it is so well with me as it is? When a man is content, it does not seem to me that any change can be for the better, and, trifles apart, I really am content. God grant it may last, the Dean responded earnestly. Only I would warn you to be ready for change in case it comes to you in spite of yourself. I would warn you not to feel too secure, for I have noticed this, that for some mysterious reason which no mortal can fathom, it appears to be the will of heaven that when a man is able to say sincerely, I am happy. When he is most confident, believing his happiness to be as firmly placed as earthly happiness can be, then is the time for him to be most watchful, for then is change most likely to be at hand. Indeed, it has seemed to me that this feeling of security, or rather of content with things as they are, is in itself an indication of coming change. As he finished speaking, the cathedral clock above them began to strike the hour. Slowly the mellow notes followed each other, filling the night with sound, and dying away in alarm reverberation when the twelfth had struck. Then came silence, then the chime, voice-like, clear and resonant, after which all was so still that the tenor, looking up through the open window at the moonlit cathedral, towering above him, grey, shadowy and mysterious, felt as if the world itself had stopped. And all the life in it had been resolved into a moment of intense self-consciousness, of illimitable, passionate yearning for something not to be expressed. The next day was Saturday, and in the afternoon the tenor had to sing. End of Book 4, Chapter 2 Book 4, Chapter 3 of The Heavenly Twins. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Heavenly Twins by Sarah Grand. Book 4, Chapter 3 There is human nature, both literally and figuratively speaking, in Wagner's method of setting a character to a tune of its own. For although our lives can hardly be said to order themselves to one consistent measure, our days often do. For months now, when the orb of day departs, Schubert's song had accompanied the tenor. It had soothed him. It had irritated him. It had expressed passionate longing. It had been the utterance of despairing apathy. It had marked the venous regret. And it had suggested hope. It had wearied him. It had comforted him. But it had never left him. That's Saturday morning. However, when he awoke, his mind was set to another measure. Schubert's song had gone as it had come, without conscious effort on his part. But it had left a substitute for the tenor as he lingered over his morning's work, found himself continually murmuring whole phrases of a chant which he had heard once upon a time when he was staying in an old town in France. It was the litany of the Blessed Virgin sung at benediction by some unseen singer with a wonderfully sympathetic mezzo-soprano voice. The tenor had gone again and again to hear her in this chant, the music of which suited her as well as it did the theme. The words of adoration, Sancta Maria, Sancta Dei, Genetrix, Sancta Virgo, Virginum, were uttered evenly on notes that admitted of the tenderest expression. While the supplication, the aura pro nobis, rose to the full compass of the singer's voice and was delivered in tones of passionate entreaty. At the end, in the Agnes Dei, the music changed, dropping into the minor with impressive effect, the effect of earnestness wearied by effort but still unshaken.  He had not thought of the chant for years, nor had there been anything apparently to recall it now. But all that day it possessed him, and at intervals he caught himself involuntarily singing it aloud. Agus Dei, Cuitola Spaccata Mundi, Parche Nobis Domini, Agus Dei, Cuitola Spaccata Mimdi, Ex Audei No Stomini, Agus Dei, Cuitola Spaccata Mundi, Miserere Nobis. He sang it while he was dressing. He whistled it with his hands in his pockets while he walked up and down the room waiting for his breakfast. And at breakfast, with the newspaper before him, he hummed it to himself steadily. He began it again as he crossed the road to enter the cathedral for the early morning service. He continued it while he was putting on his surplus. He marched to it in the procession. And he wrapped it out on his music book when he had taken his seat in the choir. He opened the book to study his solo for the afternoon service. But before he was halfway through, his mind was busily rendering, not the music before him. But Agus Dei, Cuitola Spaccata Mundi, Parche Nobis Domini, the haunting strain had become an intolerable nuisance by this time. He made a vigorous effort to get rid of it by giving his mind to what was going on around him. An interesting himself in the people as they entered and took their places in stall and choir, and cannons pew, chancel and transep, being Saturday. There was a good attendance even at this early service. Strangers from a distance came in to see the cathedral, and people in the place came in to see the strangers, so that there was plenty to observe, especially for one who, unlike the tenor, was a little behind the scenes or had peeped beneath the surface and beheld the various incidents of the life dramas, which were constantly being enacted in the sacred edifice itself, from service to service in the midst and with the help of psalms and hymns and spiritual songs. Prayers and sermons, under the deans' very nose, and often in the presence of the bishop, the world at worship is a worldly sight. And there was a certain appropriateness in the tenor's misoverry, but he failed to apply it, although it kept him company to the end and was still faithful when he sallied forth from the gloom of the cathedral and went on his way with the rest in the sunshine and freshness of a glad new day. As the time for the afternoon service approached, the people began again to flock to the cathedral, but in crowds now, for it had been rumored that the tenor was to sing. The choir, from their lateral position, on either side of the aisle, were able to look up and down the church, having on the one hand and opposite the distinguished visitors who were accommodated with seats in the stalls, the canons and deans' pews, and on the other the officiating clergy and the congregation generally. It was an advantageous position for those who came to observe, but the tenor had not hitherto been one of these. The music, when it was interesting, absorbed him, and when it was dull, the monotony soothed him, so that he noticed nothing. It had done so this afternoon. During all the first part of the service he neither saw nor heard, but did his work mechanically, like one in a dream, and in every pause of it the old chant recurred to him, filling his heart with a separate undercurrent of solemn supplication, now in French Agnoudoudou Aque affesé la peches du monde, ayas petit dinous And now in Latin, Agus de Huetola Spacate Monde Visorari nobis The dean preached a sermon at, on Saturday afternoon, which he took the precaution to deliver before the anthem, so that the people might still have something to look forward to and keep their seats. The sermonette, over, the organ played the opening bars of the tenor's solo, and the choir stood up. While he waited for the note, the tenor absently fixed his eyes on a lady in the cannon's pew. The spell of the old chant was still upon him, and instead of preparing his mind for his task, he let it murmur on. Agus de Huetola Spacate Monde Parche nobis Domine While a rap silence fell upon the congregation, not a ribbon rustled. The expression of expectation was most intense. One would scarcely have expected the tenor to take up the note at the right moment, his mind being preoccupied by another strain, but he did. The lady in the cannon's pew held the music of the anthem before her, and had been following that. But when the first clear notes of the tenor's voice rang through the building, she looked up as if in surprise their eyes met. And with a shock, the tenor awoke from his lethargy, faltered for a moment, and then stopped. The organ played on, however, and he quickly recovered. But the pause had been quite perceptible, and the people were amazed. It was the first time that such a thing had happened with their tenor, which made it a matter of moment, and the wonder of it grew. Parties being formed, the one to excuse the slip and call it nothing, the other to blame him for his carelessness, as people who never disappointed us are blamed with bitterness, if for once by chance they err. That night the tenor's restlessness grew to a head. He was engaged upon a piece of work he wished to finish. But he could not settle to it, and after making an ineffectual effort to concentrate his attention upon it, he took up his hat and strolled out. It was a lovely moonlight night. The line of trees and the clothes were in flower, and their sweetness was overpowering. He did not stay there, however, but wandered out into the city, with his hat pushed back from his forehead and his hands in his pockets. The gas was not lighted in the streets as the moon was near the full, and beneath her rays, all common objects, however obtrusively vulgar by daylight, were refined into beauty for the moment. Pater de coris deus visorari nobis fili redemptor mundi deus visorari nobis spirta sancte deus visorari nobis sancte trinitas unus deus visorari nobis. The tenor sang softly to himself as he slowly pursued his way. He had some sort of a vague idea that he would like to go and look at the quaint old marketplace by moonlight, and when he reached it, he stopped at the corner, interrupting a song to gaze in artistic appreciation at the silent scene before him, at the heavy masses of shade interspersed with intervals of mellow moonlight, and the angles of roof-inspire and ornament cut clean as cameos against the dark and radiant clarity of the beautiful night sky. The marketplace was an irregular square, picturesquely enclosed by tall houses of different heights and most original construction. Among them the east end of a church and part of a public building of ancient date were crowded in. Without incongruous effect, however, the moonlight, crisp, cool, and clear, having melted hue and form of all alike into one harmonious whole, to the charm of which even the covered stalls used in the day's dealings and now packed in the middle of the square, and the deserted footways added something.  He was the only other person about, and on that account the tenor had looked at him a second time. As he did so, a young woman came suddenly round the corner and accosted the boy. Quia espo, she exclaimed, laying her hand on his arm and smiling up into his face admiringly. The boy stepped back to avoid her with an unmistakable gesture of disgust, and in doing so he accidentally stumbled up against the tenor. He turned round and apologized confusedly. The tenor raised his hat and answered courteously. They were standing together side by side now, and remained so for some seconds, silently surveying the scene. And then the tenor all unconsciously began again to sing. Sancta Maria, he entreated. Sancta de genitrix, Sancta Virgo virginum, aura pro nobis. The girl had been wondering off again, but at the first note of the supplication she stopped, a chord of memory stirred. She knew the words, she knew the tune. She had sung them both herself often and often at home in France. She was a child of Mary then, and now. As the tenor finished the last note of the phrase and paused, she clasped her hands convulsively and gasped. Oh, mandu, mandu, es petit demoi. Her half-inarticulate cry did not reach the tenor and the boy. Neither had they observed her distress. For just at that moment the city clock struck one, and both had raised their heads involuntarily in expectation of the chime. And presently out upon the night it rolled, a great wave of sound, swelling and spreading, muffled by distance somewhat, but still distinctly sweet and insistent. Do you believe it? said the boy, glancing toward the girl, and repeating the gesture of disgust with which he had shrunk from her when she accosted him. The tenor lifted his hat and brushed his hand back over his hair. Do I believe it in spite of that? You would say, he answered, considering the girl with quiet eyes. Yes, I believe it, he declared, in spite of that, which has puzzled older heads than yours, with which he turned to retrace his steps. Taking up the litany of the Blessed Virgin once more as he went, the supplication, agustay, quittola spaccata mundi, miserari nobis, being audible long after he was out of sight. The boy remained as he had left him for some time. Apparently lost in thought, and the girl still stood a little way off in a dejected attitude. Her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed on the ground. She looked ill and spiritless. The boy, glancing at her carelessly, wondered at the intent expression of her face. He did not perceive that she was praying, but she was. The midnight stillness deepened about those two. There was not another living creature to be seen. The irregular, old buildings on every side looked runous in the shadowy moonlight, and the whole marketplace presented to the boy a picture of desolation which chilled him. He was about to turn away, with the last cursory glance at the other solitary figure, when something suddenly occurred which arrested his attention. It seemed to startle him, too, for he sprang back, with prompt agility, into a dark door away behind him, for once he watched what followed with the keenest interest. Being careful, however, to conceal himself the while, he had not felt any movement of pity or kindly compassion for the girl. Perfect indifference had succeeded the first sensation of repugnance. He would have left her there to any fate that might await her, and would have expected all right-minded people to do the same. It was, therefore, with unmitigated astonishment that he beheld the scene which was now being enacted before him. After no longer alone, a tall and graceful lady of most dignified bearing, with a countenance of peculiar serenity and sweetness, had approached from the opposite direction and was standing beside the girl, speaking to her evidently, but the boy was too far off to hear what was said. He could see, however, that the girl's whole attitude had changed. She was no longer dejected, but eager, and she gazed in the lady's face as she listened to her words with an expression of admiration and wonder. One had almost said evadoration upon her own, as though it were a heavenly visitant who had hailed her. The lady, as she spoke, pointed to a street opposite, and the girl cast quick glance in that direction. She seemed to be measuring a distance she was impatient to traverse, and moved a step forward at the same time, uttering some short sentence with rapid gesticulation. The pantomime was perfectly intelligible to the boy, who understood that she was feverishly anxious to carry out some intention on the instant. The lady seemed to hesitate, then, laying her beautiful white ungloved hand on the girl's shoulder, and looking into her face, she spoke again earnestly. The girl answered with passionate protestations, and then the lady smiled, satisfied apparently, and led the way in the direction to which she had pointed, the girl following in haste. The hat had fallen back, her hair was loosened, her countenance beamed with enthusiasm, as the boy observed. He was stealing softly, after them, skipping from shadow to shadow, in great enjoyment of the whole adventure. The lady took the girl to a long, low, rambling house beside a church, at the door of which she knocked. It was opened immediately by a singularly venerable-looking old man, evidently a priest, with a fine, though rugged face, instinct with zeal and benevolence. He had his hat in his hand, and was just coming out, but when he saw who had knocked, he stopped short, and bowed differentially. The girl sank down upon the doorstep, as if exhausted. I have brought Marie, crusade, home, father, the lady said. Ah, my daughter, is that you? We have been expecting you for many days. The old man exclaimed, in French, taking the girl's hand and raising her gently as he spoke. I have prayed for you day and night, without ceasing, and only just now, as I passed the convent, I went to ask the night portraits for tidings of our wandering sheep, and specially mentioned you. But enter, the good sisters are waiting for you, and we'll welcome you with joy. One of two sisters of charity, who were standing behind the priest, now came forward and kissed the girl. The old man raised his hat, and, looking up into the clear depths of the quiet sky, murmured a blessing, and went his way, and then the door was closed. Hmm, said the boy, who was lurking up an entry opposite. So that is what they do at night, is it? And that is the young person who sold her sister Louise to Mosley mom teeth. Now I am beginning to know the world, and what an extraordinary old world it is, to be sure. One half seems to be always kept busy mending the mischief the other half has made. He peeped cautiously out of the entry, looking for the lady, but she had disappeared, and night and silence reigned supreme. End of book four, chapter three. Book four, chapter four of the heavenly twins. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Asher. MTSD.tv slash news. The Heavenly Twins by Sarah G. Chapter four. All that the tenor had witnessed of the scene in the marketplace made little or no impression on him, and he would probably never have thought of it again. Had he not encountered the boy a few nights later, standing idly and servant as before, at the same time and almost in the same place. The tenor's first impulse was to pass on without speaking, but the boy looked at him and there was something in the look. Half shy, half appealing, which caused him to stop, and having stopped, he was obliged to speak. To his first commonplace remark, the boy answered nervously, with quick glances instantly averted as if he were afraid to meet the tenor's eyes. The latter continued to talk, however, and after a little the boy's timidity wore off and his manner became assured. This a curious old place, is it not, he remarked, and curiously named if you consider how very little quest there is for morning care for the new day which would bring the light of truth after the darkness of error. It never struck me that the name could have any allegorical significance. The tenor answered presacly, I believe it used to be moon and quest. It stands at the junction of the two rivers, you know, or rather just below it. They run the united rays from hands to the sea. I know, said the boy, but it really is a romantic old place, especially by moonlight. And it teams with historical associations, as the guy book has it, with its cathedral, cloisters, castle and close. The closest in England, they say.  The water gate is the most interesting to me. Two of the others are architecturally beautiful, where they haven't been spoiled by restoration. The tenor rejoined. Ah, the boy ejaculated, and then continued poishly. You are not a native, evidently, or you wouldn't speak so moderately. The inhabitants based themselves black in the face about everything in the city. They made me believe that the whole earth began here originally, and that it was also the point of departure for the sea. It did wash their walls in the southern side once upon a time, but the sinfulness of the people compelled it to retire ages ago, and it has since enjoyed a pure moral atmosphere twenty miles away. Indeed, said the tenor, I did not know that the sea was so fastidious. Oh yes, it is. Naturally, the boy declared. But it cannot choose its position for itself always any more than a weekend. But people are more entertaining than places he pursued. Don't you think so? Now, these people, how God-fearing and orthodox they are, and how admirably they make religion part of their daily life in the matter of stretching a point and using the right of Christian charity to be lenient when a too rigorous adhesion to principle would injure their interest. Their chief confectioner retired from business the other day, but they would not give their custom to his successor at first because of his religious opinions. They have pursued him for his atheism, in fact, but in a very short time they returned to him for his ice-creams, which are excellent. If you ever feel any doubt about life being worth living, go and get one. It'll reassure you. They had been strolling on as they talked, and now the tenor turned to look at his companion. Being about to answer him, when something in the boy's face struck him as familiar, and he paused, knitting his brows in a perplexed effort to think what it was. Measured beside himself, the boy was rather taller than he looked, but very slender, and his hands and feet were too small. He had dark eyebrows, peculiarly light, luxuriant hair, and natural accompaniment, a skin of extreme fairness and delicacy. In fact, he was too fair for his age. It made him look effeminate, and had it not been for the dark eyebrows and eyelashes, his colouring would have been insipid. As it was, however, there was no lack of character in his face, and you would have called him a pretty boy while thinking at high time he had grown out of his prettiness. The tenor's reflection, but his too earnest gaze apparently disconcerted the boy who returned it with one quick anxious glance and then seemed to fake fright and finally beltered, leaving the tenor alone in the road. That young rascal is out without leave and is afraid of being recognised, he concluded. It was some weeks before they met again, and during the interval the tenor often thought of the boy with curiosity and interest. There was something unusual in his manner and appearance which would have attracted attention even if his conversation had not been significant and that it was significant the tenor discovered by the continual recurrence to his mind of someone or other of the boy's observations. He had not tried to find out who the boy was, interest not having stirred his characteristic apathy in such matters to that extent, but he looked for him continually, both by day and night, his thoughts being pretty equally divided between him and the lady whose brilliant glance had had such a magical effect upon him the first time he encountered it. She came to the cathedral regularly now and always sat in the cannon's pew and always when she sang she looked at him and he knew that the look was an expression of appreciation and thanks. He knew too that the day she did not come would be a blank day for him. The Heavenly Twins by Sarah G. Chapter 5 The moon had grown old, but the nights were still sanded by the lime trees when the tenor met the boy again. He had begun to believe that the boy did not live in mourning quest and as often happens he was thinking of him less than usual on this particular occasion and hence he came upon him unawares. The boy was lolling against the iron railings that enclosed the grassy space round which the old lime trees grew in the middle of one arm of the glows. It was a bright, clear night, but chilly and he was wrapped in a green coat which lent a little substance to his slender figure. The tenor would have passed him without recognising him but for his sandy hair but shone out palely against the bark of one of the trees. I was waiting for you, the boy said. Why are you so late tonight? How do you know I'm later than usual tonight? He asked because generally you come out about ten o'clock and it is nearly twelve now. How do you happen to know I generally come out about ten o'clock? Oh, the boy answered coolly. I watched you. I've been studying your habits in order to find out what manner of man you are and I think you'll do. He added patronisingly with the white shake of his head. I guess you were looking for me too, weren't you?  What makes you think so? He asked. I'm accustomed to that sort of thing, the boy replied, with a twinkle in his eyes. People who meet me once try as a role to cultivate my acquaintance but he raised himself from his lolling posture and added, I'll woke up and down with you if you like, but you must give me your arm. I require support. Why are you tired? What have you been doing today? The tenor asked as he acquiesced, smiling in his grave way for the boy pleased him. Oh well, considering I got up this morning. That was Assyria's business. It was with emphasis, for I had to settle Assyria's question before I arose. I had to make up my mind about free will and predestination. If I could believe in predestination, I thought I might have breakfast in bed without self-reproach. But if it were a matter of free will, I felt I should be obliged to get up. And how did he settle it? The tenor asked. I didn't settle it, the boy replied. For just as I was coming to a conclusion, the breakfast bell rang and the force of habit compelled me to jump out of bed in a hurry. I don't call that free will, and I think on the whole predestination had the best of it perhaps. For my breakfast was sent up to me after all without any action on my part, and a part took of it in the silence and solitude of my own chamber with an easy conscience and the luxuries of an open window and a book. I suppose you can do that every day, if you like. You have no one to interfere with you. I have no one to interfere with me, the tenor repeated, sortfully. Perhaps it would be better for me if I had. By better you mean happier, the boy responded, clasping best hands round the tenor's arm. The latter looked down at him, wandering a little, but not displeased. They were waiting in the shadow of the houses just then, and could see each other's faces, but the tenor's heart warmed more and more to the scariest boy, and he pressed the hand that rested on his arm a little closer. It was a long time since the great, large-hearted, earnest man had known anyone so young and spontaneous or felt a touch of human sympathy, and in both he found refreshment, or something of that, something which he knew he needed but could not name. They took a turn up and down in silence, and then the boy began again, boyishly. I say, do you suffer from nerves? You made rather a bungle of it the other day, didn't you? You mean, when I break down in that anthem, were you there, or where did you sit? With the distinguished strangers, of course. I did not see you. Do you look behind you? No, but are you a stranger here? Well, not exactly, said the boy, with the great affectation of candor. They had passed out into the open now, and the tenor could see the boy's face. He had glanced at him as we do at the person we speak to, but something he saw rested his glance, and caused him to look again keenly and closely to something that had perplexed him before. The boy returned his gaze, smiling and unabashed. She put you out, didn't she? he asked with a grin. Verily, she hath eyes at least. I've been told so, but I'm no judge of such things myself. The puzzled look passed from the tenor's face. I know what it is, he said. You're exactly like her. The boy laughed, and then to keep it a secret I was going to make a mystery of myself, he said, but faculties like yours are not to be baffled, and since you have observed so much, I might as well confess that there are two of us, twins. They call us the heavenly twins. What, signs of the zodiac, said the tenor? No signs of the time, said the boy. There was a little pause, and then the tenor observed. I should hardly have thought you were twins, except for the likeness. Is this still looks elder than you do? Well, you see, she's so much more depraved, said the boy, and her lovely name is Angelica. Excuse me, I must laugh. He slipped his hand from the tenor's arm, leaned his back against a railing, and exploded. Excuse me, he repeated. When he could contain himself, I've suffered from this affliction all my life. I can't help laughing. So it seems, said the tenor. May I ask what provoked this last attack of him, Malady? Before he could answer, they were accosted by a respectable looking man, a small farmer from a distance, probably, who was making the most of a rare opportunity by trying to see as much as he could of the cathedral in the dark. I beg your pardon, sir, he said. The boy was all in gravity in a moment. But could you tell me what flying buttresses are? A sign of rain, said the boy, whereupon the tenor seized him by the scruff of the neck and shook him incontinently. For a moment after he was released, the boy seemed to be overcome by his tonishment. But this was rapidly succeeded by the attack of the Malady he had declared to be congenital. Apparently, brought on by the shock of the chastisement, and the tenor, who had walked on a little way with the countryman, answering his questions, left him laughing all over. He waited, leaning against the railing, until the tenor returned.  That's right, didn't make a stranger of me, the boy interrupted. Treat me like a younger brother.  The tenor was about to reply, but his voice was drowned by a sudden clangour of the bells about them. The clock struck, the chime rang, and while they waited listening, the tenor raised his hat. They were standing at the corner of the cloisters, looking up to the clock tower and its tapering spa, which surmounted the nomen façade and entrance to the south transept. I must care, the boy said, when he could hear himself speak. Will you not come in to my house? I'm afraid I'm very wandering in hospitality, the tenor exclaimed. I should have asked you before, I live close by. I should be so glad. Not tonight, the boy interrupted hastily. Another time, goodbye. Chapter 6 When next the tenor saw Angelica, after he had learned that she was the boy's sister, he felt that a new interest had been added to her attractions. It was on a Saturday afternoon in the cathedral as usual, and she came in late. But almost as soon as she had taken her seat, she looked at the tenor with an earnest, anxious glance that reminded him of her brother and her colour deepened. The boy had told her then the tenor thought, and he was glad she knew that they had met. It was a bond of union which seemed to bring her nearer. He noticed now how like in feature the brother and sister were. The girl looked taller as well as older and was altogether on a larger scale, figure being amply developed for her age, while the boy was fragile to a fault. Her hair was dark too, while his was light. But with these light differences, there was likeness enough to show that they were twins. They both had the same shaped eyes, the same straight, well-defined, dark eyebrows and long lashes, the same features, the same clear skin and even teeth, but the expression was different. There was never any tavern in the girl's face. It was always pale and tranquil, almost to sadness as the tenor thought, standing out in fair leave against the dark oak carving of the stalls. Her moments were all made too, with a certain quiet dignity that seemed habitual. In the boy, on the contrary, there was no trace of that graceful attribute. He threw himself about, lolled, lolliped and gesticulated, with as much delight in the free play of his muscles, as if he were only let out to exercise them occasionally. And it seemed as if he must always be a dagger drawn with dignity. But such a slender, intellectual creature could not without absurdity acquire the ponderous movements and weight of manner of smaller wits in duller brains. In the girl, quiescence was the natural outcome of womanly reserve. In the boy, it would have been mere affectation. His lightness and brightness were his great charm at present, a charm, however, which was much enhanced by moments of thoughtfulness, which gave glimpses of another nature beneath. With more substantial qualities, the tenor had soon perceived that he was not all mischief, romp and boishness. All that was on the surface, but beneath there was a strong will at work with some purpose, or the tenor was much mistaken. And there was a daring and there was a rationality. This was the tenor's first impression and further acquaintance only confirmed it. Having formed his opinion of the boy's abilities, the tenor began to make plans for his future and the selflessness of the man's nature shared itself in nothing more clearly perhaps than in the consideration he gave to the lad's career. His own had not cost him so much as a thought for years, but now he roused himself and became ambitious all at once with the boy. He believed that there was the making of a distinguished man in him, and he allowed the hope of being able to influence him in some worthy direction to become as much a part of his daily life as another hope had become. A hope which was strongly felt but not yet acknowledged except insofar as it took the form of a desire to see her and made known its presence with force in the pang of disappointment which he suffered if by chance she failed to come as usual to the service on Saturday afternoon. He saw in the girl an ideal and had found, certainly enough, in the laughter-loving boy to make him eager to befriend him, and thus into the tenor's life two new interests had found their way and something which had hitherto been wanting to make the music of it perfect was heard at last in his wonderful voice when he sang. End of Chapter 6. Recording by AsherMTSD.tv Book 4, Chapter 7 of The Heavenly Twins. This is a LibriVox recording. Our LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Judy Geinen. The Heavenly Twins by Sarah Grand. Book 4, Chapter 7. About this time the weather changed. The nights were wet for a week, and when it cleared up the tenor had begun to do some work for the dean which kept him at home in the evenings so that he had no opportunity of seeing the boy who only seemed to come abroad at night for some little time. He saw his sister, however, in the cathedral regularly once a week, and always she gave him a friendly glance by which his days were rounded as by a blessing, and he felt content. His being so was entirely characteristic. Another man in his place would have lost the charm of the present and anxiety to reach some future which should be even more complete, but the tenor took no thought for the moral. Each day as it came was a joy to him, and his hopes, if he had any, were part of his peace. The work he was doing for the dean was interesting. He was making drawings to illustrate a history of the Anglo-Norman times, which the dean was writing. He drew well and with great facility. But these drawings, many of which were architectural, required special care and accuracy, with the closest attention to detail, which made the work fatiguing, particularly as he had to do it at night. His only leisure time just then, and more than once he had tired himself out, had been obliged to put it away and rest. On one of these occasions, instead of going to bed, he stretched himself in an easy chair beside the open French window, which looked out upon the cathedral, and prepared to indulge in the quiet luxury of a pipe while he rested his weary eyes. The great cathedral towered above him, and from where he sat, the tenor caught a beautiful glimpse of it, angle-wise, of the south transept and tower-inspire, the rich perpendicular windows of the clear story, the bold span of the flying buttresses rising out of the plain, but solid Norman base, every detail of which he knew and appreciated. It was a fair still-story night without, and the light air that blew in upon him was sweet and refreshing. His mind wandered from subject to subject, a sleepy sign as he smoked, and presently he put down his pipe and closed his eyes. He thought then that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming, and in his dream he fancied he heard himself sing.  He was conscious of saying, that is my voice exactly. I have often wondered how it sounded to other people, and now I am listening to it myself, which is strange, but the strangest part of it was that the words to which the music shaped itself in his mind were not the words of any song he knew, but that expression of human nature which contains in itself some of the grandest harmony in the language. These are actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air into thin air, and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve.   The last words repeated themselves over and over again on different notes and in another key each time, and with such powerful emphasis that it lasted aroused the tenor upon whose sleepy brain the fact that it was not a voice, but a violin to which he had been listening dawned gradually while his trained ear further recognized the tone of a rare instrument and the touch of a master hand. He got up and went to the window. Oh, he exclaimed, is it you? And there was a world of pleasure in the exclamation. Come in. The boy who was standing in the road opened the little garden, gate and entered. I'm glad you have relented, he said, for I meant to play until I had softened your heart and had persuaded you to take me in, and the hope deferred was making me sick. I was asleep the tenor answered, Why didn't you come in? You must have known you would be welcome. Sit down and tell me, why do we only meet at night? What do you do with yourself all day? I am not a daylight beauty, the boy declared, I look best at night. But seriously, the tenor persisted. Oh, my tutor, you know, sandhurst, exams, and that kind of thing. You're going into the army then. But the boy smiling put the question by, the easy, pleasant loving. Centuous side of his nature was evidently uppermost, and when that was the case, it was so natural for him to shirk a disagreeable subject that the tenor had not the heart to pursue it further. Won't you take your hat off, he said presently? The boy put up both hands to it.  No, the tenor answered smiling, not if you object. I do object, I don't like to be touched. The tenor still smiling watched him as he carefully removed his hat. His head was rather a peculiar shape, it was too broad at the back and too large altogether for his slight frame, though probably the thickness of his fluffy light hair which stood up all over it, in his scent of parting as the tenor's own, added considerably to this last defect. There was nothing so very extraordinary about it, however, and the tenor did not see why he should be sensitive on the subject, and rather suspected that the boy was gravely poking fun at him. But as he could not be sure of this and would not have hurt his feelings for the world, he forbode to make any remark. The boy glanced round the room.  These appearances of wealth, as you call it, are delusive, the tenor answered. I just happened to have money enough to furnish my house when I came here, but I am a very poor man now. I have little or nothing, in fact, but my salary for singing in the choir. Oh, said the boy, and you might be so rich with your voice. The tenor brushed his hand back over his hair.  No, he answered smiling again. The boy kept him smiling perpetually. What is it, then? Why don't you work? Well, I do work, the tenor answered him.  Oh, because I have no one to make it for. If you had, and the boy leapt forward eagerly, would you? Would you work for a lady who loved you if she gave herself to you? I would work for my wife, said the tenor. Are you engaged, the boy asked? There seemed no limit to his capacity for asking. The tenor shook his head and shook the ashes out of his pipe at the same time. Are you in love, the boy persisted? The tenor made no reply to this impertinence. But a glow spread over his face, forehead, and chin and throat. The boy, whom nothing escaped, leapt back, satisfied. I know what it is, he said. She's married, and you don't like to ask her to run away with you. I expect she would, you know, if you did. The tenor threw himself back in his chair and laughed. His mirth seemed to jar on the boy, who got up and began to pace about the room frowning and dissatisfied. You look pale, the tenor said. Have you been ill since I saw you? No, yes, the boy answered. I had a bad cold. I was very sorry for myself. The tenor took up his violin and examined it. Where did you study, he asked? Everywhere was the ungraciously vague reply. I wish you would play again, the tenor said, taking no notice of his ill-humor. It would be a rare treat for a hermit like me. No, it's the blunt rejoiner. I don't want to make music. I want to explore. Well, make yourself at home, the tenor said, humoring him, good-naturely. Make me at home, the boy replied, confidential relations, you know. You may smoke if you like. Oh, thank you, the tenor answered politely, sitting down in his easy chair from which he had risen to look at the violin, and taking up his pipe again. The boy was rummaging about now, and finding much to interest him, he presently recovered his temper, and began to banter his host. But even this outlet was, scarcely, sufficient for his superfurious life and energy. The boy emphasized his remarks by throwing a stray cushion or two at the tenor. He jumped over the chairs instead of walking round them, and performed an occasional pa-su, or pinuet, in various parts of the room. When these innocent amusements piled upon him, he took up his violin and played a plaintive air to which he chanted. There was a merry dromedary waltzing on the plain. Dromedary waltzing, dromedary prancing, and all the people said it is a sign of rain. And they saw the good beast dancing. Executing grotesque steps himself at the same time in illustration. Oh, boy, forbear the tenor exclaimed at last. Or you will be the death of me. That's it, the boy responded cheerfully.  After this he sat down on a high-back chair with his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out before him, and his chin on his chest, looking up from under his eyebrows at the tenor thoughtfully. A wonderful, a great gravity. And when he spoke again the tenor looked for something serious. I say he began at last. The tenor took his pipe from his mouth and waited, interrogatively. I say I'm hungry. The tenor looked his dismay. Boys always are, you know, the youth added, encouragingly. And if there should be nothing in the house the poor tenor ejaculated, I'll go and see. He returned quite chest-fallen. There is nothing. He said at least nothing but bread, no butter even. I don't believe you, said the boy, rousing himself from his indolent attitude. Boy, you mustn't say you don't believe me. But I don't, said the boy. I don't believe you know where to look. Are the servants out? Yes, my solitary attendant doesn't sleep here. Then I'll go and look myself. Oh, do if you like, said the tenor, much amused, and thinking the boy would enjoy himself best if he were left rummaging at his own sweet will, he took up a book, brushed his hand back over his shining hair, and was soon absorbed, where presently he was startled by a wild cry of distress from the kitchen. And, jumping up hastily, he went to see what was the matter. He found the boy standing at one end of the kitchen clutching a vegetable dish and gazing with a set expression of absolute horror at some object quite at the other end. The tenor strained his own eyes in the same direction that could not at first make anything out.   I'm not the boy snapped.  I can't bear creepy crawly things that give me fits. I began to perceive, boy, that you have a reason for everything the tenor observed. As he disposed of the innocent object of the boy's abhorrence, put it out of sight the latter entreated, looking nauseated. But as soon as the tenor had accomplished his mandate, his good humor returned, and he began to beam again.  You have no imagination. You never lifted a dish cover, why I've found a dozen eggs fresh. For I broke one into a cup to see, and there are a whole lot of cold potatoes. It doesn't sound appetizing cold potatoes and raw eggs. Sound. It isn't sound you judge by in matters of this kind. Just you wait, and you will see, smell, and taste. Well, if it please you, the tenor answered lazily, I see something already. You have lighted a fire. Yes, and I've used all the dry sticks of the boy with great glee. Won't the old woman swear when she comes in in the morning? The tenor returned to his book, reflecting, as he prepared to resume it, on the wonderful provision of nature which endows the growing animal not only with such strong instincts of self-preservation, but with the power to gratify them, and to take itself off at the same time and be happy in so doing, thus saving those who have outgrown these natural precipities from some of their less agreeable consequences. Presently a hot red face appeared at the door. Did you say you liked your eggs turn, the boy wanted to know? I didn't say, but I do, if you're frying them. And hard or soft? Oh, soft, how many can you eat? Half a dozen at least, the tenor returned at random. And I can eat three with great gravity. That will make nine, and leave three for your breakfast in the morning. I daresay you won't want more after such a late supper. I don't think I should myself. But do you mean me to understand that the veracity of the growing animal will be satisfied with less than I can eat? You see, the boy explained apologetically, the heat of the fire has taken a lot out of me, but the waste must be repaired. Yes, but the expenditure has been followed by a certain amount of exhaustion and the power to repair the waste has yet to be generated. It will come as a sort of reaction of the organs which can only set in after a proper period of repose, a sort of inter-rigrium of the energies, you know. The tenor threw back his golden head, oh boy, he espossulated.  The boy was very busy for the next ten minutes, arranging the table, and quite in his element, cooing as he proceeded and giving little muttered reasons to himself in his soft, contretto voice for everything he did. That voice of his was wonderfully flexible. He could make it harsh, grating, gruffly, manish, and caressing as a woman's at will. But the tone that seemed natural to it was the deep mellow contretto into which he was relapsed when not thinking of himself. The tenor thought it hardly rough enough for a boy of his age, but it was in harmony with his fragile form and delicate, effeminate features.  Flashed through his mind as he watched him now, coming and going in his side, it seemed so likely and felt already that he should miss the boy, and wondered with retrospective self-pity how he had managed to live it all with no such interest. A golden-headed, grey-eyed, white-toothed, fine-skinned son of the morning must be a Siberite, the boy is there entering the room at that moment. So I bring flowers, and also salad, just cut and crisp. May I ask how you knew there was salad in my garden? Well, you may ask, the boy responded cheerfully, but let me see. Though perhaps I had better tell you, I found that out the last time I was here, perhaps you don't know that I came. I wanted to discover the resources of the place, so I took advantage of your temporary absence on business one day and inspected it. Where was I, the tenor asked? You were busy at the fire insurance office opposite. Do you mean the cathedral? Boy, I will not let you mock. The boy grinned. It was the only time I could be at all sure of you, he pursued. You were going to sing a solo. I saw it advertised in the paper and laid my plans accordingly. But I was in a fright. I thought you might just happen to feel bad and be obliged to come out and catch me. I felt that strongly when I was picking your flowers in the greenhouse. He left the room before the tenor recovered and returned with a tray on which was the result of his enterprise. If you don't like eggs and potatoes fried as I fry them, you'll never like anything again in this world I asserted confidently, helping the tenor as he spoke. The thing is, I have the dripping boiling to begin with, you know. He continued, I'll only give you two eggs at a time. Then plunge them in and, as they brown, take them off one by one and put them on a hot dish. I'm speaking of the potatoes now, but don't cover them up and make them flabby. And the great thing is to keep them crisp. They really are goods of the tenor, but he had overestimated his capacity to only dispose of three of the eggs. The boy was disgusted. However, he said it did not matter since he was there to sacrifice himself in the interests of science and preserve the balance of nature by eating the rest himself. A feat he accomplished easily. Now this is what I call good entertainment for man and beast, he observed. May I ask which is the beast, the tenor ventured? Why, I am, of course, in the boy. Did you ever know a boy who wasn't half a beast? Yes, it is all a matter of association and surroundings. What if you knew the kind of moral atmosphere I have to breathe at home? You would know also how little you ought to expect of me, but what shall we drink? There is some beer, I believe, the tenor said jubiously. Burgundy is more in my line. Burgundy, a boy like you, shouldn't know the difference. A boy like me wouldn't probably. The tenor smiled, and what do you call yourself? Pray a man, he asked. No, a bright particular spirit. The tenor thought inappropriate, the tenor thought, and he got up. It does not often happen, so he said, but now I think of it. I believe I have some burgundy in the house. The dean sent me a dozen the last time I was out of sorts, and there is some left. I know, said the boy, it is in the cupboard under the stairs on the left-hand side. When the tenor came back with the burgundy the boy settled himself in an easy chair with a glass on the table beside him, and it was evident that his mood had changed. He was thoughtful, for a little. Sitting with solemn eyes, looking out at the cathedral opposite, there was only one rose-shaded lamp left alight in the long, low room, and the dimness within made it possible to see out into the clear night and distinguish objects easily. When I look out at the great pile and realize his antiquity, I suffer, the boy said at last. Do you know what it is, the awful oppression of the ages? The tenor did not answer for a moment, then he said, I never see you at church. I should think not the boy replied, still speaking seriously. You never see anyone but Angelica. The tenor flushed. Why do you never speak to that sweet young lady the boy asked tentatively after a little pause? I? How could I?   Oh boy, how can you be so young? The tenor exclaimed with a gesture of impatience but still abused. The boy stepped his wine and gazed into the glass, delighting in the rich deep color. I should think she would be delighted to make the acquaintance of so great an artist he said. The tenor bowed ironically. May I ask if you are pursuing your investigation as to what manner of man I am, he asked? Well, yes, was the candid rejoiner. I was. I suppose you think that you ought not to speak without an introduction. Well, say I gave you one. The tenor laughed. He felt that he ought to let the subject drop and at the same time yielded to the temptation. What would your introduction be worth, he asked? Everything the boy rejoined. I am on excellent terms with Angelica. We have always been inseparable and I get on with her capitolty and she is not so easy to get on with, I can tell you. He added as if taking credit to himself. When she is good she is very good indeed, but when she is naughty she is horrid. And just now she is mostly naughty. She isn't very happy. The interest expressed in the tenor's attitude was intensified and inquiry came into his eyes. She is not very happy the boy pursued with extreme deliberation because you come no nearer. Boy, you are romancing, the tenor said with a shade of weariness in his voice. I am not, the boy replied. I know all that Angelica thinks and it is of you. The tenor exclaimed, you must not tell me, but she, I will not allow it. Well, there, then, don't bite, said the boy, and I won't tell you against your will that she thinks a great deal about you, this presto in order to get it out before the tenor could stop him, but I will tell you on my own account that I don't know the woman who wouldn't. If it flushed, suffused the tenor's face and he turned away. The boy grinned. Sometimes I do, he said, only they're generally more so. There was a long silence after this. During which the tenor changed his attitude repeatedly. He was much disturbed and he showed it. The boy made a great pretense of sipping his wine but he had not in reality taken much of it. He was watching the tenor and it was curious how much older he looked while so engaged. The tenor must have noticed the change in him which was quite remarkable, an entirely different character, but for his own preoccupation as it was however he noticed nothing. Boy, he began at last in a low voice and hesitating. I want you to promise me something. The boy lent forward all attention. I want you to promise that you will not say anything like that, anything at all about me, too. To Angelica the boy seemed to think. I will promise he slowly decided if you will promise me one thing in return. What is it? Will you promise to tell me everything you think about her? The tenor laughed. You might as well, the boy has postulated. I've got to look after you both and see that you don't make fools of yourselves. The youngness of people in love is a caution and I should like to see Angelica safely settled with you and man with a voice like yours is a match for anyone. There are obstacles, of course, but they can be got over if you will trust me. Oh, you impossible child, the tenor exclaimed. It is you who are impossible, the boy said in Dungeon. You are too ideal to content to worship from afar off as Dante worshipped Beatrice. I believe that was what killed her. If Dante had come to the scratch, as he should have done, she would have been all right. Beatrice was a married woman the tenor observed. The boy shrugged his shoulders, but just then the cathedral clock struck three finished his wine. A disperse he said when the chime was over. Take care of my fiddle. You'll find the case under the sofa. I left it the last time I was here. By the by you should make the old woman stay at home to look after the place when you're out. Unscrupulous people might walk in uninvited, you know. Ta-ta! The tenor found himself alone. It was no use to go to bed. He could not rest. His heart burned within him. It was no use to tell himself that the boy he knew what he was saying and he spoke confidently. He was one of those who are wiser in their generation than the children of light and he had said what was it he had said not much in words perhaps but he conveyed an impression he had made the tenor believe as she thought of him. He believed it and he disbelieved it. As she thought of him he threw himself down on the sofa and buried his face in the cushions. The bear supposition made every little nerve in his body tangle with joy. He ought not to indulge in hope perhaps but as the boy himself might have observed you can't expect much sense from a man in that state of mind. A few days later the tenor saw his lady again in the cannon's pew and he was sure, quite sure, she tried to suppress a smile.  I'll wring his neck for him when he comes again. But when the service was over and he had taken his surplus off she passed him in the knave so close that he might have touched her and looked at him with eyes just like the boy when he was shy gave him a quick half-frightened look and blush vividly gave him time to speak too and he had chosen but the tenor was not the man to take advantage of a girlish indiscretion. When he went home however he was glad and he opened his piano and sang like one inspired I am gaining more power in everything he said to himself I could make a position for her yet. End of Book 4, Chapter 7, Recording by Judy Guinen Book 4, Chapter 8 of The Heavenly Twins This is a LibriVox recording A LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Judy Guinen Book 4, Chapter 8 A few nights later the tenor went out for a stroll leaving the windows of a sitting-room closed but not fastened and the lamp turned down. On his return he was surprised to find the window wide open and the room lit up.  He could easily have reached over and opened it from the outside but knowing that it creaked and not wanting to disturb his nocturnal visitor until he had ascertained his occupation he jumped over it lightly walked across the grass-plot to the window and looked in. It was the boy, of course. The tenor recognized him at once although all he could see of him at first were his legs as he knelt on the floor with his back to him and his head and shoulders under a sofa. What in the name of fortune is he up to now? The tenor wondered. Just then the boy got up frowning and flushed with stooping. He stamped his foot impatiently and looked all round the room and suddenly his face cleared he had discovered his violin on the top of a bookshelf above him and that was apparently what he wanted for he made a dash at it and took it down and hugged it affectionately. The tenor smiled and stepped down into the room. He did not wish to take his visitor unawares but the carpet was soft and thick and as quick step as he crossed to where the boy was standing with his back to him absorbed in the contemplation his beloved instrument made no noise so that when the tenor laid his hand on the boy's shoulder he did startle him considerably. The boy did not drop his instrument but he uttered an almost wombish streak and faced round with such a scared white look that the tenor thought he was going to faint. He recovered immediately however and then exclaimed angrily how dare you startle me so everybody knows I can't bear to be startled if you are nothing but a blunderer you will spoil everything and I bolted the gate too it would have made a noise if you had opened it as you ought to have done and then I should have known I have a good mind to go away now and never come back again I am very sorry said the tenor but how was I to know it was you it might have been a thief thieves don't come to steal grand pianos and armchairs and lighted chambers with the windows open and the blinds up the boy retorted a mean spying around like that are you an American the tenor interrupted blandly yes I am with a spirity and you must have known quite well it was me who else could get into the close after the gates were shut I never thought of that said the tenor and how do you get in pray by the postron no was the answer I come by the watergate and his face cleared as he saw the tenor's puzzled glance at his garments I don't swim but the fairy does not cross after six no but I do you see and now let us make music he added his good humor restored by the tenor's mystification if you will be so good as to accompany me with your piano I will give you a treat I brought my music the last time I was here and there it was piled up on a chair beside the instrument the tenor could have sworn that neither chair nor music was there when he went out that evening he used the use of swearing he felt that the boy in his present mood would have out sworn him without scruple and it pleased him to maintain his assertion so he opened his piano in silence and the music began and it was a rare treat indeed which the tenor enjoyed that night the boy played with great technical mastery of the instrument but even that was not so remarkable as the originality of his interpretations he possessed that sympathetic comprehension of the master's ideas which is the first virtue of a musician but even when he was most true to it he managed to throw some of his strong individuality into the rendering and hence the originality which was the special charm of his playing as an artist he certainly satisfied even the sensitive soul of the tenor was refreshed when he played but in other respects he was obviously deficient so long as things were pleasant it was a question whether he would ever stop to ask himself if they were right acts which lead to no bodily evil such as sickness or that lowering of the system which lessens the power of enjoyment he was not likely in his present phase to see much objection to and for the truth for verbal accuracy in his assertions that is he had no particular respect all this however the tenor was more reluctant to acknowledge perhaps then slow to perceive he was one of those who expect a great soul to accompany great gifts and what he did know of the boy's shortcomings he condoned he believed the young tone poet's power was in itself an indication of high aspirations and those he thought were only temporarily suppressed by a boy's affection of cynicism for the boy did not give the tenor much time to think his mind was quick glancing like his eyes when he was animated and he carried the tenor along with him from one occupation to another with distracting glee when he was tired of making music as he called it he demanded food and so long as he could cook it and serve it himself he delighted in bacon and eggs as much as he did in Bach and Beethoven the tenor tried to wean him of his nocturnal habits but to this the boy would not listen he said he liked to sit up all night and when he said he liked a thing he seemed to think he had adduced an unanswerable argument in its favor the tenor complained of fatigue the long nights affected his voice he said and made him unfit for work but the boy only grinned at this and told him he'd get used to it then he threatened to shut up the house and go to bed if the boy did not come in proper time and on one occasion he carried out his threat but when the boy arrived he made night hideous with horrid howls until the tenor could stand it no longer he obliged to get up and let him in to preserve the peace of the neighborhood after which the tenor ceased to remonstrate and it became one of the pleasures of his life to prepare for this terrible hungry boy he worked in his garden early and late cultivating the succulent roots which the latter loved the fruits and the vegetables and last but not least the flowers for he never could feed without flowers he said and the tenor ministered to this exaction with the rest because he is delicate the tenor thought always excusing him when he is older and stronger he will grow out of all these Epicurean niceties of taste I must make him dig too and fence and row he'll soon develop more manliness that he was spoiling the boy in the meantime never occurred to him not even when he noticed that the latter took all these kindnesses as a matter of course and only grumbled when some accustomed attention was omitted the tenor was vex sometimes and obliged to find fault but the boy could always soothe him I am sure you love me he would say your life was not worth living until I came and you could not live without me now I am a horrid little brute I know but I have my finer feelings too my capacity for loving and that raises me all love is sweet given or returned when the boy quoted or recited anything he really felt he had a way of lingering over the words as if a syllable were a pleasure to him the deep control of his voice was at his sweetest then and he seldom failed to make his own mood felt as he intended the tenor justly incensed by some wicked piece of mischief was often obliged to turn away that he might maintain his authority and not be seen too often but he never deceived the boy who could gauge the effect of his persuasion to a nicety and would grin like a fiend behind the tenor's back at the success of his own eloquence no matter what he had done by hook or by crook he always managed to bring about a reconciliation before they parted he knew the tenor's weak point Angelica and when everything else failed he would play upon that unmercifully but he had a way of speaking of his sister which often made the tenor seriously angry he did not believe the boy meant half the disrespect with which he mentioned her but it galled him nevertheless on occasion when the boy had repeated some scandalous gossip to which the tenor objected and afterward excused himself by saying that it was not his but his sister's story the tenor's indignation overflowed and he lectured him severely you should never forget that your sister is an innocent girl he said and it is degrading to her even to have her name associated with such ideas but the boy only grinned bless you he retorted don't make so much a do about nothing she's quite as wise as we are the tenor's eyes flashed I call that disloyal he said even if it were true and it is not true it would be disloyal and I am ashamed of you if you ever dare to speak of your sister in that light way to me again I'll thrash you for a moment the boy was astonished by the threat his jaw dropped and he stared at the tenor but quickly recovering himself he burst into an uncontrollable fit oh my he exclaimed what a brother-in-law you would be how do you know she is such a saint you are a little brute was all the answer the tenor a watch saved but the question made him think he could picture her to himself at any time as he saw her in the cannon's poo and the pale proud purity of her face with the unvarying calm of her demeanor where assurance is enough for him his dear lady his delicate minded girl he would stop it he would make this gape-grace brother of hers respect her even as he had threatened if necessary do you know what she calls you the youth as presently breaking in upon the tenor's meditation in a confident way as if he could not be mistaken about the subject of it but the tenor was not to be beguiled all at once I have already requested you not to mention your sister to me I want to tell you what she calls you she calls you Israphil Israphil he repeated the angel of song you know but the tenor made no sign the boy watched him a moment and then continued unabashed I shall call you Israphil myself I think for the future but I like your own name too he added I have only just found it out everybody here calls you the tenor you know and how did you find out pray I looked everywhere so the boy glancing round him comprehensively and at last I found it on the back of an old envelope that was in the Bible you keep in the bedroom here it is and he took it out of his pocketbook David, Julian, Ben, Temple, Esquire Haythorpe, Castle, Hayes, and B a painful spasm contracted the tenor's face oh boy he said in a deep stern voice that made the latter quail for once have you no sense of honor at all you must give that back to me immediately the boy returned it without a word and the tenor went upstairs his step was listless and when he came back he looked pale and disheartened he sat down in his accustomed seat beside the fireplace farthest from the window that looked out upon the cathedral the facing at himself and rusted his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head on his hand taking no notice of the boy however who waited a while casting anxious glances at him and then softly and stole away when the tenor roused himself he found a slip of paper on the table beside him on which was written Dear Isra, Phil, I beg your pardon I did it without thinking I will never hurt you like that again only forgive me and the tenor forgave him on another occasion when there was peace between them and they were both in a merry mood the boy said he had a grievance and when the tenor asked what it was he complained that the tenor had never taken to ask him his name no now you mention it the tenor answered I never thought of you having a name do you mean to say you think me such a non entity just the opposite your individuality is so strongly marked that you don't seem to require to be labeled like other people by the by what is your name Claude the tenor laughed ironically oh no he said it is mod you mean delicate dainty white fingered mod but the boy only roared this kind of insinuation never roused his resentment on the contrary it delighted him imagine the feelings of the flowers he said with a burst of laughter that convulsed him if my remarkable head sunning over with curls were to shine out on them suddenly and want to be their son I am afraid you're incorrigible the tenor answered you seem to glory in being effeminate if wholesome ridicule has no effect you'll die an old woman in the appropriate sense of the word I'll make you respect these delicate fingers of mine though the boy irritatively to interpose and then he took up his violin I'll make you quiver he drew a long melodious wail from the instrument then lightly ran up the chromatic scale and pause on an upper note for an instant before he began with perfect certainty of idea and marvelous modulations and transitions in the expression of it to make music that steeped the tenor's whole being in bliss the latter had noticed before that it was to his senses absolutely not at all to his intellect that the boy's playing always appealed but he did not quarrel with it on that account for music was the only form of sensuous indulgence he ever rioted in and besides once under the spell of the boy's playing he could not have resisted it even if he would so completely carried away the boy's white fingers were certainly not out of place at such work do I play like an old woman in the alpropriest sense of the word he demanded minicking the tenor oh boy the latter exclaimed with a deep drawn sigh of satisfaction you have genius when you play you are like that creature in the witch of atlas a sexless thing it was and in its growth it seemed to have developed no defect of either sex yet all the grace of both but the boy frowned for a moment at the definition and then he said is that what you call genius now I make it something like that only different I believe it is the attributes of both minds masculine and feminine perfectly united in one person of either sex the tenor lowling in his easy chair smiled at him lazily there was no end to his indulgence of the boy but still he led him by example principally but also by suggestion as on one occasion when the boy had been sketching out a scheme of life in which self was all predominant and the tenor asked do you never feel any impulse to do something for your suffering fellow creatures to which the boy at first rejoined derisively am I not one of the best of their benefactors would you say that a fellow who plays as I can does nothing for his fellow creatures to make music is my vocation and I follow it like a man but after a moment's thought he confessed once indeed I did try to do some good in the world but I failed disastrously what did you try I took a class in a Sunday school he waited to enjoy the effect of this announcement on the tenor I did indeed he protested but I cannot say that success attended the effort in fact both I and my class were forcibly ejected from the building before the school closed UCI no vocation and it was foolish to experiment the tenor said no more on the subject and did not mean to but the boy returned to it himself eventually and it was evident that the wish to do something for somebody was taking possession of him seriously this was the tenor's tactful way with him and from such slight indications of awakening thought he continued to augur well for the boy End of book 4 chapter 8 Recording by Judy Guinen Book 4 chapter 9 of The Heavenly Twins This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Heavenly Twins by Sarah Grand Book 4 chapter 9 So time passed on changing all things greatly or with infinitesimal changes according to their nature the colors worn in crowded thoroughfares varied with the varying fashions the tent of the summer foliage with sun and rain and dust doors closed the whole long winter were opened now and left so and the young people passed to and fro thronging to river banks but lately deserted to the cricket fields garden or wood or lawn the very faces of the street were changing enlivened by plaster and paint and polish the face of the land with the certain advance of the season the faces of France with something not to be named but visible strange and for the most part disheartening it was the old story forever and ever all things changed always but the chime was immutable as the days grew gradually to weeks his one connecting link with the outer world became dearer and dearer to the lonely tenor the nights that brought the boy were happy nights looked forward to with eagerness and prepared for with difficulty for at this time the tenor denied himself some of the bare necessaries of life that he might buy him the burgundy he loved to sip than sip and therefore the tenor indulged him drink was not to be one of his vices evidently the tenor although he would not have acknowledged it held the boy was a creature apart and one therefore whom it was not fair to measure by the common standard doubtless the manner of their meeting had something to do with this idea the boy was associated in the tenor's mind with many sweet associations with the beautiful still night with the tenors far off ideal of all that is gracious and womanly with the music that was in him and further with a sympathetic comprehension of those moments when gray glimpses of the old cathedral or a warm breath of perfumed air from the garden or some slight sound such as the note of a night bird breaking the silence fired a train of deep emotion and set his whole poetic nature quivering to the unspeakable joy of it joy sanctified by reverence and enlarged beyond comparison by love with such moods as these the boy's own mood was always in harmony so much so indeed that the tenor thought it was then that he was himself and that those wild ebullitions of spirits were only affected to disguise some deeper feeling of which boy like he was ashamed as their intimacy ripened there were times when not only his whole demeanor but his very nature seemed to change when he craved for dimness and quiet and when he would work upon the tenor with little caressing ways that one his heart and drew from him although he was habitually on demonstrative expressions of tenderness which were almost paternal in his quieter moods the boy would sit in the dim lamp light on a foot still beside the tenor's chair leaning his head against the arm of it while the letter smoked and the tap tap tap of the clematis and honeysuckle on the window pane kept time to the thoughts of each long intervals of silence were natural to the tenor and it was generally the boy who broke the charm he would talk seriously then and often about his sister and was not to be silenced until he had had his say he conquered the tenor as usual by his persistence but the letter was not much influenced by what he said at first gradually however and by dint of constant iteration some of the boy's assertions became impressed upon his mind he began to believe that Angelica did wish to make his acquaintance and to admit to himself that there might be a possibility of winning her regard eventually but his high mindedness shrank from approaching a girl whose social position was so far above his own in the matter of money that is for of course the tenor had a proper respect for art he knew that to be a great artist with the will and power to make his art elevating was to be great in the greatest way and he also knew that his own gift was second to none but would she link her lot with his? he earned for some assurance he had no ambition whatever for himself but he would have toiled to succeed for her it was his weakness to require someone to work for as he was working for the boy a purely personal ambition seemed to him a vexing and insufficient motive for action all selfless people suffer from indolence when only their interests are in question they require a strong incentive from without to arouse them such incentive as the tenor had was in itself a pleasure to him a refinement of pleasure which might be coarsened which certainly would be impaired by any change he had however began to make plans he was determined to go and take his place amongst the singers of the world but when? exactly he had not decided as the boy declared when it came to the point he found it difficult to tear himself away from morning quest of course he would go in fact he felt he must go soon say when these drawings for his good friend the dean were finished by the way boy what is your family name and who are your people my family name is wells the boy answered demirally my father has a little place in the neighborhood and my grandfather lives here too wells? the tenor repeated I seem to know the name oh doubtless the boy observed this is a hotbed of wells his refile he pleaded he was nestling beside the tenor in the damn half light smoke this refile tell me all about yourself tell me about the old castle in the north to which your letter was addressed tell me who you are I want your sympathy you have it all dear boy the tenor said I shall not feel that I have until you ask for mine you would not deny me this if you knew what a stranger I am to the luxury of loving I want to cultivate the power to care for others just now I don't seem to be able to sympathize with anyone for more than a moment and that is the cause of all you object to in me but if you would confide in me if you would make me feel that I am nearer to you than anybody else's I believe I could be different the tenor reflected for a little if I were to make you my confident boy would you respect my confidence he said at last assuredly the boy replied I promise on my honor you shall tell her yourself the tenor ignored this last impertnence but the boy was not abashed israfile he pursued they say you are the son of an actress and some great noble man and that when you found it out your intolerable pride may you give up your profession and come and bury yourself alive in morning quest because you could not bear the stigma are you son of such parents israfile the tenor brushed his hand back over his hair has your sister heard these reports he asked yes and what does she say oh she doesn't mind she rather leans to the noble man theory and when people of that kind I mean the nobility and gentry he exclaimed with a grin the worst of being in society is that you are forced to know so many disreputable people when they come to our house you come in shoals angelica being the attraction you know then we speculate angelica feels quite sure that the duke of morning quest himself is your father he was a loose old fish they say and there is a sort of family likeness between you angelica thinks you came here that your presence might be a continual reproach to him not a very worthy thought said the tenor dryly I could not swear it was angelica's it has a strong family likeness to some of my own it has said tenor he was longing in his deep easy chair with his hands folded on his vest and his legs crossed and now he laid his son he had back wearily against the cushion and looked up at the ceiling it was his accustomed attitude in moments of abstraction and the boy let him alone for a little watching him quietly then he grew impatient and broke the silence is it true israfile he asked is what true lowering his eyes to look at him without changing his position is it true that you are the son of an actress and a duke probably the tenor answered anything is probable when the most absolute uncertainty per fails then you don't know who you are the boy exclaimed the son of deep disgust due to baffled curiosity I haven't the most remote idea said the tenor I don't believe you boy I have already told you that I will not have my word doubted I know said the boy you are always autocratic but I can't believe you don't know who you are it is incredible you would never give yourself such errors if you hadn't something to go upon and besides you command respect naturally as well bread people do and you have all the manner in bearing of a man accustomed to good society you have the accent too and all the rest of it the difficulty in your case is to believe in the actress she was a very superior kind of actress I suspect and at any rate you must have been brought up and educated by somebody do tell me israfile to know your curiosity is quite womanish boy that is quite the right word the boy answered fluently women are generous and elevated and a generous and elevated mind is distinguished by nothing more certainly than an imminent curiosity the tenor changed his position slightly and in doing so absently laid his hand on the boy's head what queer dry hair you have the boy drew back resentfully I wish you wouldn't touch my hair he said I know it's nasty dry hair it's a sore point with me I think you should respect it I beg your pardon the tenor answered I really didn't know you were so sensitive on the subject but why on earth do you come so close you put that remarkable head of yours under my hand and then growl at me for touching it and really it is a temptation if I were a man of science instead of a simple artist I should like to examine it inside and out the boy put both hands up to his head and laughed delighted as usual by any jest at his own expense he had moved his footstool back a little now and sat stroking his upper lip thoughtfully and looking at tenor there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he seemed to have forgotten his desire to know the tenor's secret history why don't you wear a mustache he said suddenly the tenor looked at him lazily well I never did wear one he said but I could not in any case have worn one with a surplus the boy nodded his head sagely I forgot he said of course that would have been bad form a person is always vulgarized in appearance by wearing a military mustache the effect is as incongruous as a tail would be if added to a figure with wings but tell me do you think my mustache will ever be the color of my eyebrows when it comes oh boy the tenor exclaimed this is quite refreshing especially from you you will be quite young in time if you go on the boy grinned in his peculiar way and then got up to talk about the room the tenor thought from the expression of his face that he was meditating mischief but before he had time to put it into effect the big bell boomed above them striking the hour and then came the chime the boy hated the chime he said it was flat he said it was important like an ill-bred person he said it mingled inopportunely with everything and would do him an injury if it could when he was good he said it made him bad and when he was bad it made him worse the tenor had expected to hear him swear at it but oddly enough considering some of his aberrations the boy never swore his ideas were occasionally shocking but with the exception of certain boyishnesses in the expression of them he was a purist he went off now however anathematizing the chime and the tenor was almost glad to get rid of him the boy's superabundant vitality alone was fatiguing and when he added, as he often did a certain something of manner to it which was perplexing and irritating in the extreme he left the tenor not only fatigued but jarred all over getting spent the interval which usually elapsed before the boy returned in making excuses for him and also in making preparations End of Book 4, Chapter 9 Book 4, Chapter 10 of The Heavenly Twins This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Heavenly Twins by Sarah Grand Book 4, Chapter 10 The tenor was obliged to leave the window of his sitting room which looked out on the little grassy plot in front of his house and the cathedral opposite open always now rain, blow, or snow for the convenience of the boy the latter had changed his mind about forcing an entrance if the tenor, he said would not make it quite evident that he wanted him by leaving the window open that he could come in in his own way whenever he chose he should not come at all the window was his way and on one occasion when he had found it shut he had gone home intending as he afterward declared never to return but he had changed his mind and reappeared after an unusually long interval when the tenor to use the boy's own phrase caught it for his want of hospitality Of course he acknowledged he might have come in by the door or he might have knocked at the window but then he did not choose to come in by the door or knock at the window so that was all about it if the tenor wanted to see him he knew how to make him feel he was welcome and so on until for the sake of peace and quietness the tenor was again obliged to yield oh the moods of that terrible boy no two the same and none to be replied on sometimes he was like a wild creature there was no holding him no knowing what he would do next and the tenor used to tremble lest he should carry out one of his impossible threats among which serenading the dean upsetting the chime climbing the cathedral spire on the outside or throwing stones at the stained glass saints in the great west window were in tension so often expressed that there seemed some likelihood one or other of them being eventually put into execution then again he would saunter in about midnight and sit down in a dejected attitude looking unutterably miserable he would hardly answer when the tenor spoke to him and if he did not speak he resented it neither would he eat nor drink nor make music and if the tenor saying he sometimes burst into tears on other occasions he was the most common place a picture imaginable he would talk about a book he had been reading a new picture his people had bought the society in the neighborhood anything in fact to which the tenor would listen and the latter was often astonished by the acuteness of his perceptions and the worldly wisdom of his conclusions the tenor made every allowance for these changes of mood which if they were trying at times and certainly they were trying interesting also and amusing he knew what an affliction the sensitive nervous artistic temperament is what a power of suffering it hides beneath the more superficial power to be pleased and he pitied the boy who was an artist in every sense he also thought there had been mistakes made in his education did you ever go to a public school boy he asked one night well no the boy rejoined I had the advantage of being educated with Angelica they kindly allowed me to share her tutor I was thrown in you understand just to fill up his time and that is how it is I am so refined and cultivated but seriously said the tenor the boy raised his eyebrows seriously he repeated but do you think it delicate to question me so closely ah I see poor fellow you don't know any better but really your curiosity is quite womanish I will tell you however I had the misfortune to sever my femoral artery when I was a brat and although it seems to have come quite right now it was not thought advisable for me to rough it at a public school but why on earth are they putting you in the army the tenor asked you mean I am much too pretty said the boy not to mention my brains and manners well there I must agree with you it does seem a sad waste of valuable material but it is only to fill up an interval I shall be put into a permanent billet of another kind eventually whether I like it or not you mean you will be put into the earth to enrich it I suppose well no I was not so smart said the boy now that is a rather good one for you oh I suspect if I could plum your depth I should find myself but a simple shallow child in comparison no what I meant was that eventually a certain amount of earth would come to me to enrich me but what does your father think about this military maneuver my father think roared the boy oh lord you don't know my father and he fairly curled himself up in convulsions of silent laughter which the tenor thought unseemly considering the subject of it but he said no more he knew that there was nothing to be done with such a boy but to wait and hope and that was the attitude into which the tenor found himself most prone to fall in these days with regard to things in general being greatly cheered meanwhile by the sight of his lovely lady who smiled at him now without doubt and was seldom absent from her accustomed seat in the cannon's pew when he sang the tenor looked better now and more out of place than ever in the choir better that is to say in the sense of being more attractive but he was not looking strong and the common faces about him seemed commoner still when contrasted with the exceptional refinement of his own the constant self denial he had been obliged to exercise in order to indulge the fancies of that rapacious boy although a pleasure in itself was beginning to tell upon him his features had sharpened a little his skin was transparent to a fault and the brightness of his yellow hair if it added to the quite peculiar beauty added something also to the too great delicacy of his face it was the brightness of his hair that suggested such names for him as older the beautiful and son of the morning to the boy who invariably called him by some such fanciful appellation it was at this time too that a great painter came to morning quest and painted a picture called music the interest of which centered in the tenor himself singing while Angelica gazed at him as if she were spellbound the boy used to describe this picture to the tenor while it was in progress but the latter listening in his dreamy way was under the impression for some time that the work was one of his young friends own imagination only by degrees however it dawned upon him that the picture was an actual fact and then he was displeased he thought that the artist had taken a liberty with regard to himself and been guilty of an impertence so far as his lovely lady was concerned well so I told him said the boy but you know dearest Raphael that in the interests of art as well as in the interests of science men are carried away to such an extent that they sometimes forget to be scrupulous it is curious he broke off gazing at the tenor critically that Angelica should specially admire your chin it is your mouth that appeals to me you have a regular russity on Jones Dante's dream and lest Damo Zell kind of mouth with full firm lips I should think you're the sort of fellow that women would like to kiss don't try to look as if you wouldn't kiss a woman just once in a way dear old chap women hate men like priests who mustn't kiss them if they would and they have no respect for other men who wouldn't kiss them if they could I know Angelica hasn't the last words were delivered from outside in the garden after the boy had made his escape through the window end of book 4 chapter 10