All who knew the beautiful and accomplished
Aurora wondered why she did not marry. She had
now reached the mature age of twenty-five years, and
was in full possession of those charms which are estimated
by all men as the choicest gifts a woman can possess.
You must know that Aurora had a queenly person, delightful
manners, an extensive education, and an amiable disposition;
and, being the only child of wealthy parents, she
should not have lacked the one thing that seemed necessary
to perfect and round out her usefulness as a member
of society.
The truth was, Aurora did not fancy
the male sex. She regarded men as conveniences
that might come handy at times when an escort to the
theatre was required, or when a partner in a dance
was demanded, when a fan was to be picked up, or when
an errand was to be run; but the idea of marrying
any man was as distasteful to Aurora as the proposition
to marry a hat-rack or any other piece of household
furniture would have been.
The secret of this strange aversion
might have been traced to Aurora’s maiden aunt
Eliza, who had directed Aurora’s education, and
had from her niece’s early youth instilled into
Aurora’s mind very distinct notions touching
the masculine sex.
Aurora had numerous admirers among
the young gentlemen who moved in the same elevated
social circle as herself and frequently called at her
father’s house. Any one of them would gladly
have made her his wife, and many of them had expressed
a tender yearning for her life companionship.
But Aurora was quick to recognize in each suitor some
objectionable trait or habit or feature which her aunt
Eliza had told about, and which imperatively prohibited
a continuance of the young gentleman’s attentions.
Aurora’s father could not understand
why his daughter was so hypercritical and fastidious
in a matter which others of her sex were so apt to
accept with charitable eyes. “They are
bright, honest fellows,” he urged, “worthy
of any girl’s love. Receive their advances
kindly, my child, and having chosen one among them,
you will be the happier for it.”
“Never mind, Aurora,”
said Aunt Eliza. “Men are all alike.
They show their meanness in different ways, but the
same spirit of evil is in ’em all. I have
lived in this world forty-six years, and during that
time I have found men to be the most unfeeling and
most untrustworthy of brutes.”
So it was that at the age of twenty-five
Aurora was found beautiful, amiable, and accomplished,
but thoroughly and hopelessly a man-hater. And
it was about this time that she became involved in
that unhappy affair which even to this day is talked
of by those who knew her then.
On the evening of a certain day Aurora
attended the opera with her father and mother and
Morgan Magnus, the young banker. Their box at
the opera was so close to the orchestra that by reaching
out her hand Aurora could have touched several of
the instruments. Now it happened that a bassoon
was the instrument nearest the box in which Aurora
sat, and it was natural therefore that the bassoon
attracted more of Aurora’s attention than any
other instrument in the orchestra. If you have
never beheld or heard a bassoon you are to understand
that it is an instrument of wood, of considerable
more length than breadth, provided with numerous stops
and keys, and capable of producing an infinite variety
of tones, ranging from the depth of lugubriousness
to the highest pitch of vivacity. This particular
bassoon was of an appearance that bordered upon the
somber, the polished white of his keys emphasizing
the solemn black of his long, willowy body. And,
as he loomed up above the serene bald head of the
musician that played him, Aurora thought she had never
seen a more distingue object.
The opera was “Il Trovatore,”
a work well calculated to call in play all that peculiar
pathos of which the bassoon is capable. When
Aurora saw the player raise the bassoon and apply
the tiny tube thereunto appertaining to his lips,
and heard him evoke from the innermost recesses of
the bassoon tones that were fairly reeking with tears
and redolent of melancholy, she felt a curious sentiment
of pity awakened in her bosom.
Aurora had seen many an agonized swain
at her feet, and had heard his impassioned pleadings
for mercy; she had perused many a love missive wherein
her pity was eloquently implored, but never had she
experienced the tender, melting sentiment that percolated
through her breast when she heard the bassoon mingling
his melancholy tones with Manrico’s plaints.
The tears welled up into Aurora’s eyes, her
bosom heaved convulsively, and the most subtile emotions
thrilled her soul.
In vain did young Magnus, the banker,
seek to learn the cause of her agitation, and it seemed
like a cruel mockery when Aurora’s mother said:
“You must remember, dear, that it is not real;
it is only a play.” After this memorable
evening, wherein an unexpected and indescribable sweetness
had crept into the young woman’s life, Aurora
more frequently insisted upon going to the opera.
A strange fascination attracted her thither, and
on each succeeding evening she found some new beauty
in the bassoon, some new phase in his kaleidoscopic
character to wonder at, some new accomplishment to
admire. On one occasion-it was at
the opera bouffe-this musical prodigy exhibited
a playfulness and an exuberance of wit and humor that
Aurora had never dreamed of. He ran the gamut
of vocal conceit, and the polyglot fertility of his
fancy simply astounded his rapt auditor. She
was dazed, enchanted, spellbound. So here we
find the fair Aurora passing from the condition of
pity into the estate of admiration.
And now, having first conceived a
wondrous pity for the bassoon, and then having become
imbued with an admiration of his wit, sarcasm, badinage,
repartee, and humor, it followed naturally and logically
that Aurora should fall desperately in love with him;
for pity and admiration are but the forerunners of
the grand passion.
“Aunt Eliza,” said Aurora
one day, “you have instilled into my sensitive
nature an indelible aversion to men, compared with
which all such deleble passions as affection
and love are as inconsequential as summer zéphyrs.
I believe men to be by nature and practice gross,
vulgar, sensual, and unworthy; and from this opinion
I feel that I shall never recede. Yet such a
clinging and fragile thing is woman’s heart
that it must needs have some object about which it
may twine, even as the gentle ivy twines about the
oak. Now, as you know, some women there are
who, convinced of the utter worthlessness of the opposite
sex, dedicate their lives to the adoration of some
art or science, lavishing thereupon that love which
women less prudent squander upon base men and ungrateful
children; in the painting of pictures, devotion to
the drama, the cultivation of music, pursuit of trade,
or the exclusive attention to a profession, some women
find the highest pleasure. But you and I, dear
aunt, who are directed by even higher and purer motives
than these women, scorn the pursuits of the arts and
sciences, the professions and trades, and lay our hearts
as willing sacrifices upon the altars of a tabby cat
and a bassoon. What could be purer or more exalted
than a love of that kind?”
Having uttered this eloquent preface,
which was, indeed, characteristic of the fair creature,
Aurora told Aunt Eliza of the bassoon, and as she
spoke of his versatile accomplishments and admirable
qualities her eyes glowed with an unwonted animation,
and a carmine hue suffused her beautiful cheeks.
It was plain that Aurora was deeply in love, and
Aunt Eliza was overjoyed.
“It is gratifying,” said
Aunt Eliza, “to find that my teachings promise
such happy results, that the seeds I have so carefully
sown already show signs of a glorious fruition.
Now, while it is true that I cannot conceive of a
happier love than that which exists between my own
dear tabby cat and myself, it is also true that I
recognize your bassoon as an object so much worthier
of adoration than mankind in general, and your male
acquaintances in particular, that I most heartily felicitate
you upon the idol you have chosen for your worship.
Bassoons do not smoke, nor chew tobacco, nor swear,
nor bet on horse-races, nor play billiards, nor do
any of those horrid things which constitute the larger
part of a man’s ambitions and pursuits.
You have acted wisely, my dear, and heaven grant
you may be as happy in his love as I am in tabby’s.”
“I feel that I shall be,”
murmured Aurora; “already my bassoon is very
precious to me.”
With the dawn of this first passion
a new motive seemed to come into Aurora’s life-a
gentle melancholy, a subdued sentiment whose accompaniments
were sighings and day-dreamings and solitary tears
and swoonings.
Quite naturally Aurora sought Aunt
Eliza’s society more than ever now, and her
conversation and thoughts were always on the bassoon.
It was very beautiful.
But late one night Aurora burst into
Aunt Eliza’s room and threw herself upon Aunt
Eliza’s bed, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Eliza
was inexpressibly shocked, and under a sudden impulse
of horror the tabby sprang to her feet, arched her
back, bristled her tail, and uttered monosyllables
of astonishment.
“Why, Aurora, what ails you?”
inquired Aunt Eliza, kindly.
“Oh, auntie, my heart is broken,
I know it is,” wailed Aurora.
“Come, come, my child,”
said Aunt Eliza, soothingly, “don’t take
on so. Tell auntie what ails you.”
“He was harsh and cruel to me
to-night, and oh! I loved him so!” moaned
Aurora.
“A lovers’ quarrel, eh?”
thought Aunt Eliza; and she got up, slipped her wrapper
on, and brewed Aurora a big bowl of boneset tea.
Oh, how nice and bitter and fragrant it was, and
how Aunt Eliza’s nostrils sniffed, and how her
eyes sparkled as she sipped the grateful beverage.
“There, drink that, my dear,”
said Aunt Eliza, “and then tell me all about
it.”
Aurora quaffed the bowl of boneset
tea, and the wholesome draught seemed to give her
fortitude, for now she told Aunt Eliza the whole story.
It seems that Aurora had been to the opera as usual,
not for the purpose of hearing and seeing the performance,
but simply for the sake of being where the beloved
bassoon was. The opera was Wagner’s “Die
Walkuere,” and the part played by the bassoon
in the orchestration was one of conspicuous importance.
Fully appreciating his importance, the bassoon conducted
himself with brutal arrogance and superciliousness
on this occasion. His whole nature seemed changed;
his tones were harsh and discordant, and with malevolent
obstinacy he led all the other instruments in the
orchestra through a seemingly endless series of musical
pyrotechnics. There never was a more remarkable
exhibition of stubbornness. When the violins
and the ’cellos, the hautboys and the flutes,
the cornets and the trombones, said “Come, let
us work together in G minor,” or “Let us
do this passage in B flat,” the bassoon would
lead off with a wild shriek in D sharp or some other
foreign key, and maintain it so lustily that the other
instruments-e. g., the violins, the ’cellos,
the hautboys, and all-were compelled to
back, switch, and wheel into the bassoon’s lead
as best they could.
But no sooner had they come into harmony
than the bassoon-oh, melancholy perversity
of that instrument-would strike off into
another key with a ribald snicker or coarse guffaw,
causing more turbulence and another stampede.
And this preposterous condition of affairs was kept
up the whole evening, the bassoon seeming to take a
fiendish delight in his riotous, brutal conduct.
At first Aurora was mortified; then
her mortification deepened into chagrin. In
the hope of touching his heart she bestowed upon him
a look of such tender supplication that, had he not
been the most callous creature in the world, he must
have melted under it. To his eternal shame,
let it be said, the bassoon remained as impervious
to her beseeching glances as if he had been a sphinx
or a rhinoceros. In fact, Aurora’s supplicating
eyes seemed to instigate him to further and greater
madness, for after that he became still more riotous,
and at many times during the evening the crisis in
the orchestra threatened anarchy and general disintegration.
Aurora’s humiliation can be
imagined by those only who have experienced a like
bitterness-the bitterness of awakening to
a realization of the cruelty of love. Aurora
loved the bassoon tenderly, deeply, absorbingly.
The sprightliness of his lighter moods, no less than
the throbbing pathos of his sadder moments, had won
her heart. She had given him her love unreservedly,
she fairly worshipped him, and now she awakened, as
it were, from a golden dream, to find her idol clay!
It was very sad. Yet who that has loved either
man or bassoon does not know this bitterness?
“He will be gentler hereafter,”
said Aunt Eliza, encouragingly. “You must
always remember that we should be charitable and indulgent
with those we love. Who knows why the bassoon
was harsh and wayward and imperious to-night?
Let us not judge him till we have heard the whys
and wherefores. He may have been ill; depend
upon it, my dear, he had cause for his conduct.”
Aunt Eliza’s prudent words were
a great solace to Aurora. And she forgave the
bassoon all the pain he had inflicted when she went
to the opera the next night and heard him in “I
Puritani,” a work in which the grand virility
of his nature, its vigor and force, came out with
telling effect. There was not a trace of the
insolence he had manifested in “Die Walkuere,”
nor of the humorous antics he had displayed in “La
Grande Duchesse”; divested of all charlatanism,
he was now a magnificent, sonorous, manly bassoon,
and you may depend upon it Aurora was more in love
with him than ever.
It was about this time that, perceiving
a marked change in his daughter’s appearance
and demeanor, Aurora’s father began to question
her mother about it all, and that good lady at last
made bold to tell the old gentleman the whole truth
of the matter, which was simply that Aurora cherished
a passion for the bassoon. Now the father was
an exceedingly matter-of-fact, old-fashioned man,
who possessed not the least bit of sentiment, and
when he heard that his only child had fallen in love
with a bassoon, his anger was very great. He
summoned Aurora into his presence, and regarded her
with an austere countenance.
“Girl,” he said, in icy
tones, “is it true that you have been flirting
with a bassoon?”
“Father,” replied Aurora,
with dignity, “I have never flirted with anybody,
and you grievously wrong the bassoon when you intimated
that he, too, is capable of such frivolity.”
“It is nevertheless true,”
roared the old gentleman, “that you have conceived
a passion for this bassoon, and have cherished it
clandestinely.”
“It is true, father,
that I love the bassoon,” said Aurora; “it
is true that I admire his wit, vivacity, sentiment,
soul, force, power, and manliness, but I have loved
in secret. We have never met; he may know I
love him, and he may reciprocate my love, but he has
never spoken to me nor I to him, so there is nothing
clandestine in the affair.”
“Oh, my child! my child!”
sobbed the old man, breaking down; “how could
you love a bassoon, when so many eligible young men
are suitors for your hand?”
“Don’t mention him in
the same breath with those horrid creatures!”
cried Aurora, indignantly. “What scent
of tobacco or odor of wines has ever profaned the
purity of his balmy breath? What does he know
of billiards, of horse-racing, of actresses, and those
other features of brutal men’s lives?
Father, he is pure and good and exalted; seek not
to debase him by naming him in the category of man!”
“These are Eliza’s teachings!”
shrieked the old gentleman; and off he bundled to
vent his wrath on the maiden aunt. But it was
little satisfaction he got from Aunt Eliza.
After that the old gentleman kept
a strict eye on Aurora, and very soon he became satisfied
of two things: First, that Aurora was sincerely
in love with the bassoon; and, second, that the bassoon
cared nothing for Aurora. That Aurora loved
the bassoon was evidenced by her demeanor when in
his presence-her steadfast eyes, her parted
lips, her heaving bosom, her piteous sighs, her flushed
cheeks, and her varying emotions as his tones changed,
bore unimpeachable testimony to the sincerity of her
passion. That the bassoon did not care for Aurora
was proved by his utter disregard of her feelings,
for though he might be tender this moment he was harsh
the next-though pleading now he spurned
her anon; and so, variable and fickle and false as
the winds, he kept Aurora in misery and hysterics
about half the time.
One morning the old gentleman entered
the theatre while the orchestra was rehearsing.
“Who plays the bassoon?” he asked, in
an imperative tone.
“Ich!” said a man with a bald head and
gold spectacles.
“Your name?” demanded the old gentleman.
“Otto Baumgarten,” replied he of the bald
head and gold spectacles.
“Then, Otto Baumgarten,”
said the father, “I will give you one hundred
dollars for your bassoon.”
“Mein Gott!” said Herr
Baumgarten, “dat bassoon gost me not half so
much fon dot!”
“Never mind!” replied
the old gentleman. “Take the money and
give me the bassoon.”
Herr Baumgarten did not hesitate a
moment. He clutched at the gold pieces, and
while he counted them Aurora’s father was hastening
up the street with the bassoon under his arm.
Aurora saw him coming, and she recognized the idol
of her soul; his silver-plated keys were not to be
mistaken. With a cry of joy she met her father
in the hallway, snatched the bassoon to her heart,
and covered him with kisses.
“He makes no answer to your
protestations!” said her father. “Come,
give over a love that is hopeless; cast aside this
bassoon, who is hollow at heart, and whose affection
at best is only platonic!”
“You speak blasphemies, father,”
cried Aurora, “and you yourself shall hear how
he loves me, for when I but put my lips to this slender
mouthpiece there shall issue from my worshipped bassoon
tones of such ineffable tenderness that even you shall
be convinced that my passion is reciprocated.”
With these words Aurora glued her
beauteous lips to the slender blowpipe of the bassoon,
and, having inflated her lungs to their capacity,
breathed into it a respiration that seemed to come
from her very soul. But no sound issued from
the cold, hollow, unresponsive bassoon. Aurora
repeated the effort with increased vigor. There
came no answer at all.
“Aha!” laughed her father.
“I told you so; he loves you not.”
But then, with a last superhuman effort,
Aurora made her third attempt; her eyeballs started
from their sockets, big, blue veins and cords stood
out on her lovely neck, and all the force and vigor
of her young life seemed to go out through her pursed
lips into the bassoon’s system. And then,
oh then! as if to mock her idolatry and sound the
death knell of her unhappy love, the bassoon recoiled
and emitted a tone so harsh, so discordant, so supernatural,
that even Aurora’s father drew back in horror.
And lo! hearing that supernatural
sound that told her of the hopelessness of love, Aurora
dropped the hollow, mocking scoffer, clutched spasmodically
at her heart, and, with an agonizing shriek, fell
lifeless to the floor.