Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and RomancesAllen, James Lane
General
Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances
Allen, James Lane
Kentucky -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, American
He beheld her much as a brave, beautiful boy volunteer, who, suddenly
waving a bright, last adieu to gay companions in some gay-streeted
town, from motives of the loftiest heroism, takes his place in the rear
of passing soldiery, marching to misguided death; who, from the rear,
glowing with too impetuous ardor, makes his way from rank to rank ever
towards the front; and who, at last, bearing the heavy arms and wearing
the battle-stained uniform of a veteran, steps forward to the van at
the commander's side and sets his fresh, pure face undaunted towards
destruction. As he thought of her thus, deeper forces stirred within
his nature than had ever been aroused by any other woman. In comparison
every one that he had known became for the moment commonplace, human
life as he was used to it gross and uninspiring, and his own ideal
of duty a dwarfish mixture of selfishness and luxurious triviality.
Impulsive in his recognition of nobleness of nature wherever he
perceived it, for this devotedness of purpose he began to feel the
emotion which of all that ever visit the human heart is at once the
most humbling, the most uplifting, and the most enthralling--the
hero-worship of a strong man for a fragile woman.
The service began. As it went on he noticed here and there among those
near him such evidences of restlessness as betray in a seated throng
high-wrought expectancy of some pleasure too long deferred. But at
last these were succeeded by a breathless hush, as, from the concealed
organ-loft above, a low, minor prelude was heard, groping and striving
nearer and nearer towards the concealed motive, as a little wave creeps
farther and farther along a melancholy shore. Suddenly, beautiful and
clear, more tender than love, more sorrowful than death, there floated
out upon the still air of the church the cry of a woman's soul that
has offended, and that, shrinking from every prayer of speech, pours
forth its more intense, inarticulate, and suffering need through the
diviner faculty of song.
At the sound every ear was strained to listen. Hitherto the wont had
been to hear that voice bear aloft the common petition as calmly as
the incense rose past the altar to the roof; but now it quivered
over troubled depths of feeling, it rose freighted with the burden
of self-accusal. Still higher and higher it rose, borne triumphantly
upward by love and aspiration, until the powers of the singer's frame
seemed spending themselves in one superhuman effort of the soul to make
its prayer understood to the divine forgiveness. Then, all at once,
at the highest note, as a bird soaring towards the sun has its wings
broken by a shot from below, it too broke, faltered, and there was a
silence. But only for a moment: another voice, poor and cold, promptly
finished the song; the service ended; the people poured out of the
church.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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