He had also had lessons on the piano from a celebrated
professor of the Italian style, but seemed to have been particularly
delighted with the music of the seventeenth-century composers, of whose
works he had brought back some specimens set for piano and violin. It was past eleven o'clock when Mr. Gaskell left to return to New
College; but the night was unusually warm, with a moon near the full,
and John sat for some time in a cushioned window-seat before the open
sash thinking over what he had heard about the music of Italy. Feeling
still disinclined for sleep, he lit a single candle and began to turn
over some of the musical works which Mr. Gaskell had left on the table. His attention was especially attracted to an oblong book, bound in
soiled vellum, with a coat of arms stamped in gilt upon the side. It was
a manuscript copy of some early suites by Graziani for violin and
harpsichord, and was apparently written at Naples in the year 1744, many
years after the death of that composer. Though the ink was yellow and
faded, the transcript had been accurately made, and could be read with
tolerable comfort by an advanced musician in spite of the antiquated
notation. Perhaps by accident, or perhaps by some mysterious direction which our
minds are incapable of appreciating, his eye was arrested by a suite of
four movements with a _basso continuo_, or figured bass, for the
harpsichord. The other suites in the book were only distinguished by
numbers, but this one the composer had dignified with the name of
"l'Areopagita." Almost mechanically John put the book on his
music-stand, took his violin from its case, and after a moment's tuning
stood up and played the first movement, a lively _Coranto_. The light of
the single candle burning on the table was scarcely sufficient to
illumine the page; the shadows hung in the creases of the leaves, which
had grown into those wavy folds sometimes observable in books made of
thick paper and remaining long shut; and it was with difficulty that he
could read what he was playing. But he felt the strange impulse of the
old-world music urging him forward, and did not even pause to light the
candles which stood ready in their sconces on either side of the desk. The _Coranto_ was followed by a _Sarabanda_, and the _Sarabanda_ by a
_Gagliarda_. My brother stood playing, with his face turned to the
window, with the room and the large wicker chair of which I have spoken
behind him. The _Gagliarda_ began with a bold and lively air, and as he
played the opening bars, he heard behind him a creaking of the wicker
chair. The sound was a perfectly familiar one--as of some person placing
a hand on either arm of the chair preparatory to lowering himself into
it, followed by another as of the same person being leisurely seated. But for the tones of the violin, all was silent, and the creaking of the
chair was strangely distinct. The illusion was so complete that my
brother stopped playing suddenly, and turned round expecting that some
late friend of his had slipped in unawares, being attracted by the sound
of the violin, or that Mr. Gaskell himself had returned. With the
cessation of the music an absolute stillness fell upon all; the light of
the single candle scarcely reached the darker corners of the room, but
fell directly on the wicker chair and showed it to be perfectly empty. Half amused, half vexed with himself at having without reason
interrupted his music, my brother returned to the _Gagliarda_; but some
impulse induced him to light the candles in the sconces, which gave an
illumination more adequate to the occasion. The _Gagliarda_ and the last
movement, a _Minuetto_, were finished, and John closed the book,
intending, as it was now late, to seek his bed. As he shut the pages a
creaking of the wicker chair again attracted his attention, and he heard
distinctly sounds such as would be made by a person raising himself from
a sitting posture. This time, being less surprised, he could more aptly
consider the probable causes of such a circumstance, and easily arrived
at the conclusion that there must be in the wicker chair osiers
responsive to certain notes of the violin, as panes of glass in church
windows are observed to vibrate in sympathy with certain tones of the
organ. But while this argument approved itself to his reason, his
imagination was but half convinced; and he could not but be impressed
with the fact that the second creaking of the chair had been coincident
with his shutting the music-book; and, unconsciously, pictured to
himself some strange visitor waiting until the termination of the music,
and then taking his departure. His conjectures did not, however, either rob him of sleep or even
disturb it with dreams, and he woke the next morning with a cooler mind
and one less inclined to fantastic imagination. If the strange episode
of the previous evening had not entirely vanished from his mind, it
seemed at least fully accounted for by the acoustic explanation to which
I have alluded above. Although he saw Mr. Gaskell in the course of the
morning, he did not think it necessary to mention to him so trivial a
circumstance, but made with him an appointment to sup together in his
own rooms that evening, and to amuse themselves afterwards by essaying
some of the Italian music. It was shortly after nine that night when, supper being finished, Mr.
Gaskell seated himself at the piano and John tuned his violin. The
evening was closing in; there had been heavy thunder-rain in the
afternoon, and the moist air hung now heavy and steaming, while across
it there throbbed the distant vibrations of the tenor bell at Christ
Church. It was tolling the customary 101 strokes, which are rung every
night in term-time as a signal for closing the college gates. The two
young men enjoyed themselves for some while, playing first a suite by
Cesti, and then two early sonatas by Buononcini. Both of them were
sufficiently expert musicians to make reading at sight a pleasure rather
than an effort; and Mr. Gaskell especially was well versed in the theory
of music, and in the correct rendering of the _basso continuo_. After
the Buononcini Mr. Gaskell took up the oblong copy of Graziani, and
turning over its leaves, proposed that they should play the same suite
which John had performed by himself the previous evening. His selection
was apparently perfectly fortuitous, as my brother had purposely
refrained from directing his attention in any way to that piece of
music. They played the _Coranto_ and the _Sarabanda_, and in the
singular fascination of the music John had entirely forgotten the
episode of the previous evening, when, as the bold air of the
_Gagliarda_ commenced, he suddenly became aware of the same strange
creaking of the wicker chair that he had noticed on the first occasion. The sound was identical, and so exact was its resemblance to that of a
person sitting down that he stared at the chair, almost wondering that
it still appeared empty.