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PDF Live Electronic Music Composition Performance Study Friedemann Sallis Ebook Full Chapter
PDF Live Electronic Music Composition Performance Study Friedemann Sallis Ebook Full Chapter
PDF Live Electronic Music Composition Performance Study Friedemann Sallis Ebook Full Chapter
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Live-Electronic Music
This series is our home for cutting-edge, upper-level scholarly studies and
edited collections. Considering music performance, theory, and culture
alongside topics such as gender, race, ecology, film, religion, politics, and
science, titles are characterized by dynamic interventions into established
subjects and innovative studies on emerging topics.
Masculinity in Opera
Philip Purvis
Live-Electronic Music
Composition, Performance, Study
Edited by Friedemann Sallis, Valentina Bertolani,
Jan Burle and Laura Zattra
Live-Electronic Music
Composition, Performance, Study
Introduction 1
F riedemann Sallis , Valentina Bertolani ,
Jan Burle and L aura Z attra
Part I
Composition 15
Part II
Performance 81
Part III
Study 193
Bibliography 305
Index 331
Figures
Jan Burle currently develops scientific software at Jülich Centre for Neutron
Science in Garching bei München, Germany. Before that, he was Assis-
tant Professor in the Music Department at the University of Lethbridge,
Canada. His main research interest is general application of computing
xiv Contributors
related to musical sound and music: analysis, transcription, microtonal
aspects, performance and reception.
Chris Chafe is a composer, improviser and cellist, developing much of his
music alongside computer-based research. He is Director of Stanford
University’s Center for Computer Research in Music and Acoustics
(CCRMA). Computer synthesis of novel sounds and music remains an in-
terest ever since his first exposure to the work of John Chowning, William
Gardner Schottstaedt and David Wessel as a student at the Center in the
1970s and 1980s.
Angela Ida De Benedictis is a scholarly staff member and curator at the
Paul Sacher Foundation. Previously she was Assistant Professor at the
University of Pavia (Cremona), and she taught at the Universities of
Padova, Salerno, Parma and Berne. Among her scholarly interests are
the Italian postwar avant-garde, radiophonic music, music theatre,
study of creative process, and electronic music. Publications includes
the writings of Luigi Nono (Ricordi 2000 and il Saggiatore 2007) and
Luciano Berio (Einaudi 2013); Imagination at Play. The Prix Italia and the
Radiophonic Experimentation (RAI/Die Schachtel 2012); Radiodramma e
arte radiofonica (EDT 2004); New Music on the Radio (ERI-RAI 2000),
critical editions of Maderna’s, Nono’s and Togni’s work (by Suvini
Zerboni and Schott) and other books and essays of theory and analysis
mainly featuring twentieth-century music.
Agostino Di Scipio composer, sound artist, scholar. As a scholar, he is in-
terested in the cognitive and political implications of music technologies
and in systemic notions of sound and auditory experience. As a com-
poser, he is well known for performance and installation works based on
man-machine-environment networks. A thematic issue of Contemporary
Music Review documents his efforts in such direction. He is a DAAD
artist (Berlin 2004–2005) and Edgar-Varèse-Professor at Technische
Universität (Berlin 2007–2008). He is a Full Professor of Electroacoustic
Composition at Conservatory of Naples (2001–2013) and L’Aquila (since
2013).
François-Xavier Féron holds a Master’s Degree in musical acoustics (University
of Paris VI) and a PhD in musicology (University of Paris IV). After teaching
at the University of Nantes (2006–2007), he was a postdoctoral researcher at
the Centre for Interdisciplinary Research in Music Media and Technology
(CIRMMT, Montreal, 2008–2009), then at the Institut de Recherche et
Coordination Acoustique/Musique (IRCAM, Paris, 2009–2013). Since 2013,
he has been a tenured researcher at the French National Centre for Scientific
Research (CNRS) and works at the LaBRI (Laboratoire Bordelais de
Recherche en Informatique). His research focuses on contemporary musical
practices, perception of auditory trajectories and, more broadly, on interac-
tions between art, science and technology.
Contributors xv
John Granzow is Assistant Professor of Performing Arts Technology at the
University of Michigan. He teaches musical acoustics, sound synthesis,
performance systems and digital fabrication. He initiated the 3D Printing
for Acoustics workshop at the Centre for Computer Research in Music
and Acoustics at Stanford. His instruments and installations leverage
found objects, iterative CAD design, additive manufacturing and embed-
ded sound synthesis.
Xenia Pestova’s performances and recordings have earned her a reputa-
tion as a leading interpreter of uncompromising piano repertoire of her
generation. Her commitment and dedication to the promotion of mu-
sic by living composers led her to commission dozens of new works and
collaborate with major innovators in contemporary music. Her widely
acclaimed recordings of core piano duo works of the twentieth century
by John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen are available on four CDs
for Naxos Records. Her evocative solo debut of premiere recordings for
piano and toy piano with electronics on the Innova label titled Shadow
Piano was described as a ‘terrific album of dark, probing music’ by the
Chicago Reader. She is the Director of Performance at the University of
Nottingham. www.xeniapestova.com.
Friedemann Sallis is Professor at the School of Creative and Performing
Arts of the University of Calgary. He is an established scholar with an in-
ternational reputation in the field of sketch studies and archival research
in music. His research interests include the study of music that escapes
conventional notation (such as live electronic music) and of how music
relates to place. Recent publications include Music Sketches (Cambridge
University Press, 2015), Centre and Periphery, Roots and Exile: Interpreting
the Music of István Anhalt, György Kurtág and Sándor Veress (Wilfrid
Laurier University Press, 2011), as well as numerous articles on twentieth-
century music. Over the past twenty years, he has received six standard re-
search grants from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council
of Canada.
Nicola Scaldaferri is Associate Professor of Ethnomusicology at the University
of Milan, where is the director of the LEAV (Laboratory of Ethnomusicol-
ogy and Visual Anthropology). He received his PhD in Musicology at the
University of Bologna and the degree in Composition at the Conservatory of
Parma; he was Fulbright scholar at Harvard University and visiting professor
at St. Peterburg State University. His interests include twentieth-century
music and technology, Balkan epics, Italian folk music, instruments from
Western Africa. Among his recent publications: When the Trees Resound.
Collaborative Media Research on an Italian Festival (2017, edited with Steven
Feld).
Vincent Tiffon is Professor of musicology at the University of Lille, Re-
searcher in the CEAC research centre, and Co-director of the EDESAC
xvi Contributors
research team. He is also an associated researcher at IRCAM in Paris.
Tiffon’s research addresses the history, analysis and aesthetics of elec-
troacoustic and musique mixte and takes special interest in analysing
the creative process in music and musical mediology. His work has been
published in journals including Acoustic Arts & Artifacts/Technology,
Aesthetics, Communication, Analyse musicale, Les Cahiers du Cirem, Les
Cahiers de Médiologie, Contemporary Music Review, DEMéter, Filigrane,
LIEN, Medium, Médiation et communication, Musurgia, NUNC, Revue
de musicologie, and Circuit.
George Tzanetakis is Professor at the Department of Computer Science at the
University of Victoria, BC, Canada. He holds cross-listed appointments
at the School of Music and the Electrical and Computer Engineering
Department. He received his PhD at Princeton University in 2002. In
2011, he was a visiting scientist at Google Research in Mountainview,
California. Since 2010, he has been a Canada Research Chair (Tier II) in
the computer analysis of music and audio.
Laura Zattra obtained her PhD at Sorbonne/Paris IV and Trento Univer-
sity. She collaborates with research centres, archives and universities
(Padova, De Monfort, Calgary, Sorbonne). Research Associate at the
Analysis of Musical Practices Research Group, IRCAM-CNRS (Paris)
and IreMus (Paris-Sorbonne). Her research interests cover twentieth-
and twenty-first-century music, especially the interaction of music and
technology, collaborative artistic creativity, the analysis of composi-
tional process, women’s studies and music. She is currently lecturing at
University of Padova, as well as at the Parma and Rovigo conservatoires
(Italy).
Acknowledgements
The editors would like to heartily thank Heidi Bishop and Annie Vaughan for
patiently shepherding us through the publication process. Their kind advice
was much appreciated. We would also like to thank Elizabeth Levine for her
help in getting this project up and running. We are grateful to the following
people and institutions for allowing us to publish material for which they
hold copyright: John Chowning and the Center for Computer Research in
Music and Acoustics (CCRMA) of Stanford University, Marion Kalter,
Marco Mazzolini (Casa Ricordi), Nuria Schoenberg Nono and the Archivio
Luigi Nono, Alvise Vidolin and the Centro di Sonologia Computazionale
(CSC) of the Università di Padova, as well as Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, the
Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique (IRCAM),
the Paul Sacher Foundation and Universal Edition.
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Introduction
Friedemann Sallis, Valentina Bertolani,
Jan Burle and Laura Zattra
This book examines aspects of live electronic music from the overlapping
perspectives of composition, performance and study. It presents neither a
history nor a theory of this music, though we believe that it can contribute to
both. It also does not endeavour to cover the topic comprehensively. Given
the vast array of innovative musical practices that have been and continue
to be associated with this term, no book could possibly undertake a compre-
hensive overview. The chapters should thus be seen as snapshots of a rapidly
evolving object of study. They present an array of musicological research,
in which some authors report on recent achievements while others contem-
plate unresolved problems that have arisen over the past half century. The
book reflects on current practice and how we got where we are.
Evolving definitions
The concept of live electronic music preceded the term. In 1959, Karlheinz
Stockhausen (with typical clairvoyance) juxtaposed the unlimited repeata-
bility of electronic music composed using machines with instrumental music
that appeals directly to the creative, ever-variable capacities of the musician,
‘enabling multifarious production and unrepeatability from performance to
performance’ (2004, 379). He then predicted that the combination of elec-
tronic and instrumental would move beyond the stage of simple juxtapo-
sition in order to explore ‘the higher, inherent laws of a bond’ (2004, 380).
John Cage, surely one of the English language’s most important wordsmiths
with regard to new music, has been recognised for coining the term (Supper
2016, 221). In 1962, Cage presented the two goals he pursued in composing
Cartridge Music (1960). The first was to render performance indeterminate,
and the second was ‘to make electronic music live’ (Cage 1970, 145).
The term ‘live electronic music’ began to be used regularly in groups of
young composer-performers devoted to concert presentations of electronic
music in the early 1960s. David H. Cope (1976, 97; see also Manning 2013,
161–66; Deliège 2011, 415–18; Collins 2007, 41–43) mentioned the Sonic Arts
Group (inaugurated at Brandeis University in 1966, later the Sonic Arts
Union) and Musica Elettronica Viva (Rome 1966).1 Other groups he could
2 Friedemann Sallis et al.
have named include the ONCE Group (Ann Arbor, active from the late
1950s), the AMM (London 1965) and Gentle Fire (York 1968). The latter
explored the potential of new electronic media using a heterogeneous mix
of traditional and newly invented instruments to present music that blurred
the line between the avant-garde and progressive rock of the day (H. Davies
2001, 55–56). In 1967, the University of California at Davis in collaboration
with the Mills College Tape Center (Oakland) organised the First Festival
of Live-Electronic Music, the first time the term was used prominently in a
public event. According to a reviewer, the Festival presented a radical shift
in the way composer-performers approached the sound world of the concert
stage (Johnson 2011, 116–24). By the 1970s, ‘live electronic music’ was widely
used, though not consistently. The second edition of the venerable Harvard
Dictionary of Music presents articles on electronic instruments and elec-
tronic music. The latter contains no mention of the concept or the term, even
though the author was likely aware of both (Boucourechliev 1972, 285–86).
What does ‘live electronic music’ mean? The definition has always been
troublesome, with differences cropping up depending on what is being de-
scribed. In English, the term can be defined in (at least) two ways. On the
one hand, it is an umbrella term under which we find a wide range of musical
practices, styles, techniques and technologies that stage the dichotomy em-
bedded in it: live (= human) vs. electronic (= sound generated by some sort
of electrically powered device). In this sense, live electronic music was and
continues to be used as a broad oppositional category to acousmatic music:
i.e. music prepared in a studio and fixed on some medium in advance of
being ‘played back’, normally without ‘performers’ in the traditional sense
of the term.2
The origin of this binary construction can be traced back to the 1930s,
when the adjective ‘live’ began to be used to qualify music performance in
response to a crisis caused by the broadcast of recorded music on the radio.
Recording technology had existed since the beginning of the century. How-
ever, by removing the sound source from the listener’s perspective, radio
obscured the difference between live and recorded sound, motivating the
use of the term. ‘The word live was pressed into service as part of a vo-
cabulary designed to contain the crisis by describing it and reinstating the
former distinction discursively even if it could no longer be sustained expe-
rientially’ (Auslander 2002, 17). The binary constructions (human-machine,
live-recorded, art-technology) embedded in the term ‘live electronic music’
are typical of discourse about art music in the twentieth century.3 According
to Sanden (2013, 18–43), these binaries evoke a technophobia prevalent in
this discourse, which remains alive and well to this day.
On the other hand, ‘live electronic music’ can be used more narrowly to
underscore the fact that the electronic sound production is taking place on
the stage in real time. In this case, the adjective ‘live’ directly qualifies the
electronic devices or methods used to modify or produce sound, giving rise
to the term ‘live electronics’. Rather than implying the binary opposition
Introduction 3
presented above, the second meaning focuses on some kind of interactive
use of the electronic devices.
Simon Emmerson has observed that the self-declared ‘live electronic’
ensembles of the 1960s and 1970s tended to use the descriptive label ‘live
electronic’ freely, applying it to music that was ‘produced and performed
through real-time electroacoustic activity’ or was the result of a combi-
nation of ‘live performers and fixed electroacoustic sound’ (2007a, 104).
This terminological ambiguity has remained embedded in English usage
to this day, resulting in a plurality of hazy definitions that are typical of
electronic music in general and becoming increasingly problematic (Peters
et al. 2012, 3–4). Currently, when used in the narrower sense, live electronic
music usually refers to works involving the digital management or manip-
ulation of sound, placing it firmly in the era of personal computing that
emerged in the last decades of the twentieth century. Ironically, this leads
to the rather odd relegation of earlier examples based on analogue tech-
nologies to the prehistory of the live electronic music, even though these
earlier examples generated the term in the first place. These diverse perspec-
tives result in strikingly different ways of explaining what live electronic
music is and how it developed. For example, Peter Manning (2013, 157–67)
uses the term live electronic music to discuss the period from the 1950s to
the digital revolution of the 1980s. By contrast, Angela Ida De Benedictis,
one of our authors, focuses resolutely on the period from the 1980s to the
present. Though acknowledging an earlier period of live electronic music
that produced numerous masterpieces (Stockhausen’s Microphonie I, II and
Mantra), she divides her period of study into two phases: the first is des-
ignated the ‘historical phase’ of live electronic music (the 1980s and early
1990s), followed by the current phase ‘characterised by the hybridisation of
live electronics with computer music’ (De Benedictis 2015, 301–2).
Thus, with the exception of compositions for tape, mixed music can now in-
clude any music involving some kind of electronically generated sound, cre-
ating a yawning catch-all category that approaches the universal fallacy, i.e.
a term, a category, a concept or a theory that purports to explain everything
explains nothing. Consequently, the editors have advised the authors of this
book to use the original term ‘musique mixte’ and not the English translation.
Why do we choose to use a foreign term when plain English is readily available?
English authors have been borrowing terms from Italy, France and Germany
to discuss music for centuries. The problem with the English equivalents of
‘bel canto’ and ‘Sturm und Drang’ is that they erase the cultural and historical
connotations of the terms, which are far more important than the definitions
of specific words. An example of problems that arise when literal translations
are applied too liberally is the unfortunate decision by Christine North and
John Dack to translate musique concrète as concrete music (Schaeffer 2012).
No English reader can possibly know what concrete music means, unless he or
she is already familiar with Schaeffer’s definition of musique concrète, in which
case the English translation is utterly useless. In this case as well, we have ad-
vised our authors to stick with the original French term.
In the front center were four large loops and an ‘executant’ moving a
small magnetic unit through the air. The four loops controlled the four
speakers, and while all four were giving off sounds all the time, the dis-
tance of the unit from the loops determined the volume sent out from
each. The music thus came to one at varying intensity from various
points in the room, and this ‘spatial projection’ gave new sense to the
rather abstract sequence of sound originally recorded.
(Cited in Ungeheuer 1992, 152)
The example is pertinent here for two reasons. First, compositional strat-
egies and techniques are not an inherent feature of live electronic music.
Symphonie pour un homme seul, a classic piece of musique concrète, was
not composed with the pupitre potentiomètrique de relief in mind and was
initially performed without it. This work is not usually listed as an example
of live electronic music, and yet when performed under the circumstances
described above, that is precisely what it became for the duration of the per-
formance. Second, live electronic music should not be associated with spe-
cific types of technology. According to Johannes Goebel, new digital tools
developed in the last two decades of the twentieth century opened up a de-
marcation between a ‘pre-interactive’ period of live electronic music (corre-
sponding with Ungeheuer’s first concept) and the digital era, which enabled
true interaction between performing agents (Goebel 1994, 3–4). Goebel’s
notion of true interaction and its implicit value judgement constitute a form
of ‘flat-earth’ thinking. As our example clearly shows, musicians did not
Introduction 9
wait for the emergence of digital technology to engage interactively with
sound in real time. To be sure, the horizon of expectation with regard to live
interactivity has changed considerably over the past half century. A recon-
struction of the 1951 performance of Symphonie pour un homme seul would
no doubt appear quaint to audiences familiar with the complex and polished
capability of current digital technology, but to judge an event fifty years
ago by today’s standards misreads the past and ultimately hinders our abil-
ity to understand the present. Since the nineteenth century, composers and
their acolytes have regularly misread and reinterpreted the past consciously,
semi-consciously and unconsciously. Richard Wagner’s reinterpretation of
Beethoven’s achievement, through his introduction of the term ‘absolute
Musik’, is only one of a long series of such endeavours. The frequency and
regularity with which this takes place does not justify the practice.
Thus, live electronic music is not a subgenre of electronic music, nor does
it rely on specific technology. The term does not define a compositional type
or category; rather, it designates the performance of music using some kind
of electronic technology and covers a continuum of practice, ‘from the sin-
gle press a button to initiate playback, to in-the-moment fine control of all
aspects of the music’ (Collins et al. 2013, 180). Consequently, to examine live
electronic music is to look ‘over the whole history of electronic music, since
the drive to take such music live has been ever present’ (188). In his seminal
article, entitled ‘Live-Electronic Music’ (published almost forty years ear-
lier), Gordon Mumma came to the same conclusion, stating that the ‘history
of electronic music begins with live-electronic music’, which for him meant
the end of the nineteenth century (Mumma 1975, 287). As the reader will
have noted, this timeframe differs sharply from the accounts of most au-
thors, who normally place the beginning of electronic music in the years fol-
lowing World War II. This stark discrepancy reflects the fact that the history
of Western music is usually written from the perspective of the composer
and rarely from that of the performer. Compositional outcomes have been
the backbone of music historiography since it began in the nineteenth cen-
tury. Consequently, most authors in search of a terminus post quem for live
electronic music have inevitably chosen the mid-twentieth century, when the
radio stations in Paris and Cologne began using magnetic tape as a reli-
able storage medium. Composers quickly realised that the medium could
be edited, allowing them to intervene creatively with recorded sound. This
perspective conveniently ignores the fact that music using electronic devices
had been made and performed for a half century already: see, for example,
Thaddeus Cahill’s Telharmonium, as well as the Theremin, the Hammond
organ and the Ondes Martenot, to name but a few (Mumma 1975, 287–91).
LAST days are generally sad, sometimes terrible things. Sad enough
were these last days at Greystone: Cicely felt thankful when they
were over, though once gone, she would have given years of life to
recall them. It was a relief to both her mother and herself when
Geneviève left them, and they were free to take farewell of the
places they had loved so dearly, without the painful associations of
her presence, gentle and subdued as she remained to the end. It
was a relief to them, and they were conscious too that it could not
but be a relief to her.
“I shall tell my mother all,” she had said to Cicely, and Cicely was
glad to hear of her intention.
“You are right to tell her, Geneviève,” she said, “though no one
else would ever have done so.”
But Geneviève’s confession was deferred. She did not, after all,
return to Hivèritz as proposed, for there came news from Madame
Casalis of a fever having broken out in the household, which
threatened to be of a serious kind and without doubt infectious; one
of the boys and little Eudoxie were already prostrated by it; the latter,
it was feared, likely to have it badly. Under these circumstances,
therefore, it was proposed by Geneviève’s parents that she should
only go as far as Paris and stay there under the care of an old school
friend of Madame Casalis, who was by no means averse to receiving
as a visitor the ‘promise’ of a wealthy young ‘milord.’ Geneviève
shed tears over her mother’s letter, expressed herself désolée at the
thought of the anxiety in her family, but ended by deciding that her
persisting in returning home to the modest little house in the Rue de
la Croix blanche, would only add to her mother’s trouble and
distress.
“It is best I should go to Madame Du plessis,” she said resignedly.
“As mamma wishes it, it is best I should not ask still to go home.”
And her satisfaction with her own decision was not a little
increased when, the night before she was to leave, her aunt gave
her, to expend upon her trousseau, a sum of money which was now
to Mrs. Methvyn by no means the trifle it would have been a few
weeks before.
“She is my relation, however she has behaved,” said Cicely’s
mother. “It would never do for her to enter the Fawcetts’ family
without a proper outfit.”
“And I can get everything in Paris,” thought Geneviève delightedly.
And her expressions of gratitude were so evidently sincere that even
Mrs. Methvyn’s heart was a little softened to her, and she bade her
good-bye with more kindliness of manner than might have been
expected.
It ended in Geneviève’s remaining in Paris till her marriage—her
father and mother joining her there only a few days before it took
place. How much or how little, therefore, of the true history of her
daughter’s love affairs was confided to Madame Casalis, Cicely did
not till long afterwards know, though from the tone of her letters to
Mrs. Methvyn it was evident that “poor Caroline’s” satisfaction in
Geneviève’s brilliant prospects was not unalloyed.
“I would not conceal from you, my dear and kind Helen,” she
wrote, “that I am glad for my child to be well settled in life. But my
grief and sorrow for you prevent my being able to rejoice as I might
otherwise have done. And though you tell me, and it is no doubt the
case that the breaking off of your Cicely’s engagement was by her
own desire, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that it is unnatural and
strange that Geneviève should so quickly have succeeded her in Mr.
Fawcett’s regard. I trust neither he nor my daughter may regret what
seems to have been done hastily. She tells me she will explain all
when we meet; she says your goodness and that of the dear Cicely
is beyond words. I trust, when I understand more, I may not learn
that my child has not been deserving of it.”
“She is so simple and unworldly!” said Mrs. Methvyn. “Poor
Caroline—how can her daughter have become so different!”
But after reading this letter, she did not again repeat her wish that
Cicely had allowed her to tell Geneviève’s mother the whole truth.
When they first left the Abbey, it was the intention of Mrs. Methvyn
and her daughter at once to make a new home for themselves at
Leobury, a quaintly pretty, quiet little town, far away from Greystone
and its associations. It was at Leobury that Mrs. Methvyn’s former
widowhood had been spent, and it was there too that after a
separation of ten years she had again met her first love—Philip
Methvyn. Leobury was endeared to her for this reason, and Cicely
was only too glad to find her mother able to express interest on the
subject of their home, not to consent readily to what she proposed.
But their plans were not at once carried out. There was no suitable
house to be had at Leobury at the time they left Greystone. So for
nearly a year after Colonel Methvyn’s death, his widow and daughter
were without a settled home.
Summer was again on the wane—it had seemed a short summer
to Cicely compared with that of the previous year—when they at last
found themselves in possession of a pretty little house in the place
where, more than a quarter of a century before, young Mrs. Bruce
had come to live with her two years old Amiel. She had been poor
then; poorer far than now, but in those old days poverty had seemed
a smaller matter. She was young, and she had then never known
what it was to be rich; the husband she had lost had caused her far
sorer griefs than that of his death—she had suffered enough in her
short married life to realise even loneliness as a relief. Now, how
different everything was! For twenty-two years she had been happier
than it falls to the lot of many women to be; hardly a wish of hers had
remained ungratified; till Colonel Methvyn’s accident she had not
known a care—when suddenly the whole had collapsed—for the
second time she found herself a widow, and in comparatively
speaking straitened circumstances, her companion this time a
daughter even dearer to her than little Amiel—a daughter who,
young as she was, had known sorrow and disappointment neither
slight nor passing, troubles enough to have soured a less healthy
nature, which her mother was powerless to soften or heal. It is hardly
to be wondered at that, weakened in strength and nerve, Mrs.
Methvyn sometimes found it difficult to look on the bright side of
things.
But what she could not do, time and nature had not neglected.
Already Cicely was recovering from the crushing effects of the blow
that had fallen upon her so unexpectedly. She could look back now
without flinching upon all that had happened, could feel that she was
still young and strong and hopeful, and that the light had not all died
out of her life. To her their loss of riches had been by no means an
unmitigated evil; for though they were not so reduced as to come
into unlovely proximity with poverty, the change in their
circumstances had necessitated the exertion of energy and
forethought in their arrangements, which had been for Cicely a
healthy and invigorating discipline. She felt that she was of use; that,
without her, life would have been a terrible blank to her enfeebled
mother; and the consciousness gave her, as nothing else could have
done, strength and cheerfulness. One thought only she could not
face—what would life be to her now, how would it be possible to
endure it were her one interest removed, her mother taken from her?
“I am risking my all in a frail bark,” she would sometimes say to
herself with a shudder, “but surely if mamma were to die I should die
too. No one could live in such utter desolation.” Yet even as she said
so, a misgiving would suggest itself that such things had been and
might be again; that life, the awful yet priceless gift, though bestowed
unasked, is not therefore so easily to be laid down as at times we
would fain imagine. The “sharp malady” must run its course; the
“appointed bounds” cannot be passed; the “few days and full of
trouble” are to some lonely men and women lengthened into the
many, before there comes the longed-for order of release, the
permission to depart for the unseen land which, wherever and
whatever it may be, is to them more real than any other, since thither
have journeyed before them all whose presence made this earth a
home—the “faces loved and lost awhile;”—yes, there are some
strangely solitary beings in this crowded world of ours.
The first two or three Sundays at Leobury, Cicely was not able to
go to church. Her mother was not very well and shrank from being
left alone. But, at last, by the end of September, there came a
Sunday when there was nothing to prevent Cicely’s at tending the
morning service in the fine old church, but a stone’s throw from her
mother’s house.
It was a beautiful day, soft and balmy; yet already, through the
trees and in the breezes, there came the first far-off notes of the
dying year’s lament—the subdued hush of autumn was perceptible.
“The swallows have gone, I feel sure,” thought Cicely, as she
walked slowly up the quiet village street (for after all Leobury was
hardly deserving of the name of town). “I can always feel that they
are gone.”
She gazed up into the sky, the blue was mellowed and yet paled
by the golden haze of harvest-time. “The summer has gone again,”
she murmured as she passed into the church by an old porch-way
with stone seats at each side, which reminded her of the entrance to
Greystone Abbey—“the old porch at home”—and it was in a sort of
dream that she made her way to a seat in a quiet corner. She hardly
noticed when the service began; she stood up mechanically with
those about her, but her thoughts were far away. Suddenly, without
knowing what had suggested it, she found herself thinking of that
Sunday morning, more than a year ago now, in Lingthurst church—
the first Sunday after Geneviève’s arrival. She remembered how the
sunshine bad streamed into the ugly little building, brightening into
brilliant pink the old woman’s brick dust cloaks, making also more
conspicuous the mildew stains and patches on the plastered walls.
She recalled her feelings of commiseration for the new clergyman on
this his first introduction to his church. What had put all this into her
mind just now? There was nothing in the place to recall Lingthurst—
Leobury church was as picturesque and impressive as Lingthurst
was commonplace; the one was perfect of its kind, the other
glaringly bare and unattractive—the familiar words of the service had
been listened to by Cicely in many churches during the last few
months without recalling any special association. Suddenly the riddle
was solved Two clergymen were officiating; the one, an old white-
headed man with a feeble quavering voice, which contrasted
curiously with the firm clear tones of his assistant priest. From where
Cicely sat, the younger man was not visible, but by moving a little
she obtained a view of him, and understood the trick which the
“quaint witch” had been playing her—she saw before her the grave,
boyish face of Mr. Hayle!
How had he come there? How strange it seemed! A little shiver
passed through her as she recalled the last time she had seen him—
it had been on the night of the Lingthurst ball, the night so full of
misery for her. She had never seen him since then, for though he
had called at the Abbey after her father’s death, she had shrunk from
meeting him again, though far from ungrateful for his kindness and
consideration. And now here he was at Leobury!
“I shall not mind seeing him again now,” thought Cicely, “I think I
am rather glad he is here. Mother liked him. I don’t think she will
have any painful feeling to him, poor little man!”
But the rest of the service passed like a dream. Cicely’s thoughts
were away in the past—wandering in the land of long ago.” She
recalled her happy childhood, her girl hood so full of love and
promise—the sunny days when trouble and sorrow seemed such
remote, all but impossible, possibilities! How Trevor seemed
associated with it all—there was not a walk she had ever taken, not
a summer ramble or winter skating expedition in which his figure did
not seem prominent.
“I wish he had been my brother, really,” sighed Cicely, “then no
one and nothing could ever have separated us!”
It was a torn out page—a page which it would ever be painful to
miss. But she was beginning to realise that the book held others—
others which hereafter she would not shrink from looking back to and
lingering over with loving tenderness of remembrance.
When the service was over, Cicely walked slowly homewards.
She was near her mother’s house, when the sound of her own name
made her look round. Mr. Hayle was behind her.
“Miss Methvyn,” he exclaimed eagerly, his face flushed with
pleasure and the quick rate at which he had been walking, “I thought
it was you. I was sure I could not be mistaken.”
“Did you see me in church?” said Cicely, shaking hands with him
as she spoke. She was pleased to see him, but again, at this first
moment of meeting, there rushed over her the remembrance of the
last time she had spoken to him, and unconsciously a slight
constraint showed itself in her manner.
“Yes,” said Mr. Hayle. “But I was on the look-out for you. I heard
yesterday evening quite accidentally that a lady of your name had
taken a house here, and I began to hope it might be you. I trust Mrs.
Methvyn is well. I—I hope I may come to see her?”
His tone had sobered down to its usual slightly formal gravity, and
his last words sounded somewhat ill-assured and hesitating. Cicely
felt vexed with herself for chilling him.
“I am sure mamma will be pleased to see you,” she said, “when I
tell her of your being here. I was so surprised to see you,” she
continued, “we did not know you had left Lingthurst.” She uttered the
word firmly and distinctly. Mr. Hayle looked more guilty than she.
“I left some months ago,” he said. “I am only here temporarily
however—staying with my uncle who is the rector of Leobury. He is
old and infirm, and I do what I can to help him.”
“Then have you no plans for the future? Why did you leave
Lingthurst? Was it not very sudden?” questioned Cicely.
“I got discouraged there,” he replied. “No one—after you left—
took any interest in things. There was very little I, alone and
unassisted, could do, and that little a less strong man—perhaps I
may say a less energetic man—could do quite as well or better. So I
gave it up. I have plans, but—”
“Did my cousin—Mr. Fawcett, I mean—did he take no interest in
things?” interrupted Cicely. She looked up in Mr. Hayle’s face without
flinching. He could see that she wanted an answer.
“No,” he said hesitatingly. “He is not much there now, and—and
when they are there Lingthurst is generally full of company. Mrs.
Fawcett is fond of amusement.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “she is young—it is natural she should be. But
Trevor used to speak so much, after you came, about doing
something really to improve Notcotts and all that neglected part; I am
disappointed.”
“He may do so in time. He has had plenty of other things to think
of this last year,” said Mr. Hayle. Then he grew scarlet with fear that
Miss Methvyn should think he was alluding to the past. But
fortunately by this time they had reached Cicely’s home, and it was
easy for her to affect not to notice his discomposure.
“Will you come in?” she said, with her hand on the gate. “I think
mamma will be downstairs—it is half-past twelve—she is generally
dressed by this time.
“Is Mrs. Methvyn not as well as she used to be, then?” inquired
Mr. Hayle, recalling the early hours and active habits of Greystone.
“Oh! dear, yes; she is very well—perfectly well,” said Cicely
quickly. “She says she has grown lazy, that is all. Won’t you come in
and see her for yourself?”
“Not just now, thank you,” he replied. “If I may call to-morrow, I
should like very much to see Mrs. Methvyn.”
“Come to-morrow then, by all means,” said Cicely brightly. She
smiled as she spoke—she was so anxious to convince him of her
cheerfulness and well-being.
“Thank you,” he said simply, with something in his expression
which she did not understand. Then he shook hands again and went
away.
“What energy and powers of endurance she has,” he said to
himself. “Such a woman has it in her to do great things.”
Mrs. Methvyn was not in the drawing room when Cicely went in.
The girl ran upstairs.
“Mamma,” she called out, tapping at her mother’s door.
“Come in,” replied Mrs. Methvyn’s voice, and Cicely entered. Her
mother was dressed, sitting in an arm-chair near the fire.
“You are very lazy this morning, mother,” she said laughingly. “I
was very nearly bringing an old friend in to see you. Whom do you
think I met at church?”
“An old friend,” repeated Mrs. Methvyn. “Was it could it have been
Mr. Guildford?”
She spoke so eagerly that Cicely looked at her in surprise; and
now for the first time she observed that her mother was exceedingly
pale.
“Mother dear, I am afraid I have startled you,” she said penitently.
“No, it wasn’t Mr. Guildford. It was Mr. Hayle. Shall you dislike his
coming to see you to-morrow.”
“Oh! no. I shall be very glad to see him,” replied Mrs. Methvyn.
But the interest had died out of her voice. She leaned back in her
chair as if exhausted. “Will you see if Parker has come in, Cicely?”
she said. “I sent her out on a message a few minutes ago. I shall
come downstairs in a little while, and then you can tell me about Mr.
Hayle. I did not know he had left—Lingthurst.”
By her the word was pronounced with an evident effort. Just then
Parker came in. “I think this is the same as the last you had, ma’am,”
she said, “but it is not often different chemists prepare things quite
alike.”
She had a small phial in her hand, she did not observe Cicely
standing by.
“What have you been getting mamma medicine for, Parker?” she
said. “She’s not ill.”
Parker started. “It is only the same tonic that Dr. Farmer gave me
long ago,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “Go and take off your things, dear. I
shall be down directly.”
Cicely was not satisfied, but she left the room. Later in the
afternoon when she and her mother were alone together, she
recurred to what had been said. “Mamma,” she began, “what made
you think of Mr. Guildford to-day when I told you I had met an old
friend?”
“I think I should have been glad if it had been he,” said Mrs.
Methvyn. “I had great confidence in him. I think him very clever.”
“But what about it? You are not ill; you don’t want a doctor,” said
Cicely.
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t think I am very well,” replied Mrs.
Methvyn tremulously. “Long ago—years ago I used to have now and
then a sudden sort of attack, a kind of spasm, which some doctors
thought had to do with my heart. Then for some time these attacks
almost ceased, and I thought it must have been a mistake—but
lately they have returned much more frequently and violently than
before. And—Cicely dear—when I went up to town with Parker that
day from Brighton—I would not let you come, you know—it was to
see Dr.——, the great authority on that class of disease.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said that there was nothing to be done. It was true what I had
been told. He said that—that I might not get worse for a long time,
but that—it is not certain that I shall not.”
“Mamma,” cried Cicely gazing up in her mother’s face with wildly
agonised eyes, “mamma, you are going to die and leave me. That is
what you mean. Why didn’t you tell me before? oh! why didn’t you?”
“My child, my darling, I could not,” said her mother, the tears
coursing down her thin pale cheeks. “How could I break your heart
again? And it is only quite lately that I have begun to be afraid about
myself—only quite lately. It may pass off again—I may be with you
for many years yet.”
“No,” said Cicely, “no. I feel it coming. Mother, oh! mother, what
shall I do? How can God be so cruel? May not I die too? Oh,
mamma, mamma!”
She burst into an anguish of wild weeping, and for some moments
Mrs. Methvyn did not check her. Then at last she whispered, “Cicely
dearest, will you not try to be calm? For my sake—I cannot bear to
see you go.”
The words recalled Cicely to herself. Yes, she must be calm. The
pain of witnessing such stormy grief would assuredly weaken her
mother’s already feeble hold on life. With a violent effort she checked
her sobs, and fought for self-control. Then she listened to all her
mother had to say; listened, and pretended to believe that her fears
had exaggerated the danger; but in her heart of hearts she knew the
truth—the last drop of bitter sorrow had been poured into the cup of
which, for one so young, she had already drunk deeply.
When Mr. Hayle called the next day, he was shown into the
drawing-room and there found Mrs. Methvyn alone. He stayed with
her a considerable time, but he did not see Cicely at all. When he
came away from the house, his face looked sad and careworn, and
he sighed deeply: “Poor things, poor things!” he murmured to
himself. Yet he was well used to sorrow and suffering! “I will call
again in a day or two if you will allow me,” he said to Mrs. Methvyn at
parting. And she thanked him warmly and begged him to come.
“Cicely will be better again before long,” she said, “and she will like
to see you. It is the first shock that has, as it were, overwhelmed
her,” she added, with a sort of gentle apology of manner that touched
Mr. Hayle greatly. “I will come again soon,” he repeated.
And the next time he came, he found Cicely in the drawing-room
with her mother. They were sitting quietly working and talking, these
two all but broken-hearted women, as if no terrible tragedy hung over
them, as if they found life the easy, even, pleasant thing it looks to
some, till their time of trouble comes too, as in due course it must.
At first they talked about commonplace things—the weather and
Leobury and some of the people they had come to know there. Then
Mr. Hayle told the two ladies something of his own plans; how he
was likely to get a living in the east end of London, where there
would certainly be no lack of work for mind and body. At another time
Cicely would have listened with the greatest interest—even to-day
her sorrowful absorption of thought could not altogether enchain her.
“And you will throw yourself altogether utterly—into your work, I
suppose,” she said to Mr. Hayle. “I wish I were you. I suppose with
so intense an interest, no personal sorrow would be unendurable. If
you were without a friend on earth, you could still find happiness in a
life so spent.”
“I hope so—I believe so,” replied he, his eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm. “Or if not happiness, something better—better at least
than what we commonly understand by happiness—blessedness.”
“It is the old martyr spirit in another form, I suppose,” murmured
Cicely in a low voice. “I wish I could catch it.”
There fell a little pause. Then with a little hesitation the girl turned
to the young clergyman again.
“Mr. Hayle,” she said, “you remember Mr. Guildford, the
Sothernbay doctor who was so good to my father. You liked him, did
you not? I wonder if by any chance you have kept up
correspondence with him. I should so like to know where he is.”
“I can tell you where he is,” said Mr. Hayle. “I did hear from him
once after he left Sothernshire. Yes I liked him very much indeed. He
is no longer a doctor. He gave up practising when he left Sothernbay,
and accepted some sort of professorship—I forget what exactly; he
had to lecture on scientific subjects, that is about all I know. And he
writes a good deal too; he is becoming very well known—too well
known I fear; for I have heard it said that he is overworking himself
dreadfully. But he is not in England now; he is, I think, in India,
travelling with a party sent out by one of those learned societies, so I
fear my information isn’t of much use.”
“In India,” Cicely repeated sadly, but she said no more.
Soon after, Mr. Hayle left. But he went away, again promising to
call in a day or two.
“Has it tired you, mother?” said Cicely anxiously when he had
gone.
“No, dear. I like him; he is gentle and kind, and I like to see some
one who knew us at home,” she sighed a little. “At one time I shrank
from reviving any of the associations with our old life, but I am losing
that feeling.”
Cicely looked at her with wistful, anguished eyes. “Mother
dearest,” she said, “I don’t think I knew how much you loved
Greystone. Should I have kept it for you? Would you not have got ill
then? I might have hidden it all from you; Trevor would have been
glad to do so, and you need have never known there was any
trouble between us. Was I selfish and hasty—did I sacrifice you to
my pride? Have I done wrong, and is this my punishment?”
“My darling, no—a thousand times no,” replied her mother. “You
could not have married Trevor after—after his disappointing you so
terribly. You could not love where you did not respect. And you must
try to be more hopeful about me, dear, or I shall regret having told
you. I have felt better to-day than for some time past.”
Cicely tried to smile. “I think you do look a little better,” she said.
“Oh! I do so wish Mr. Guildford could have seen you.”
“He could not have done anything more. He said just the same as
Dr.——” replied Mrs. Methvyn. “My wishing to see him was more a
matter of feeling. He was so good to your father, I had learnt to trust
him; for your sake too, I wish he had been able to see me. He would
have understood it all so well.”
“Yes,” said Cicely. “I think he would.”
“He must be becoming quite a great man,” she went on after a
pause; “did you hear what Mr. Hayle said about him?”—“I dare say,”
she added to herself, “I dare say he has forgotten all about that fancy
of his. Men are better off than women; they can always bury trouble
in work.”
CHAPTER VII.
ALONE.