DOI article:
Harland, Henry: Cousin Rosalys
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26392#0052
48 Cousin Rosalys
Yes, I was in the same town with her, by Jove ; I could see
her. And indeed I did see her many times every week. Like
the villain in a melodrama, I led a double life. When I was not
disguised as a Bohemian, in a velvet jacket and a wide-awake,
smoking and talking and holding wassail with my boon companions,
you might have observed a young man attired in the height of the
prevailing fashion (his top-hat and varnished boots flashing fire in
the eyes of the Roman populace), going to call on his Aunt Eli-
zabeth. And his Aunt Elizabeth, pleased by such dutiful atten-
tions, rewarded him with frequent invitations to dinner. Her
other guests would be old ladies like herself, and old gentlemen,
and priests, priests, priests. So that Rosalys and I, the only
young ones present, were naturally paired together. After dinner
Rosalys would play and sing, while I hung over her piano. Oh,
how beautifully she played Chopin ! How ravishingly she sang !
Schubert’s TVoh in, and Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth ; and Gounod’s
Serenade and his Barcarolle :
“ Dites la jeune belle,
Oil voulez-vous aller ? ”
And how angelically beautiful she looked ! Her delicate, pale
face, and her dark, undulating hair, and her soft red lips ; and then
her eyes—her luminous, mysterious dark eyes, in whose depthsj
far, far within, you could discern her spirit shining starlike. And
her hands, white and slender and graceful, images in miniature of
herself; with what incommunicable wonder and admiration I used
to watch them as they moved above the keys. “ A woman who
plays Chopin ought to have three hands—two to play with, and
one for the man who’s listening to hold.” That was a pleasantry
which I meditated much in secret, and a thousand times aspired
to murmur in the player’s ear, but invariably, when it came to the
point
Yes, I was in the same town with her, by Jove ; I could see
her. And indeed I did see her many times every week. Like
the villain in a melodrama, I led a double life. When I was not
disguised as a Bohemian, in a velvet jacket and a wide-awake,
smoking and talking and holding wassail with my boon companions,
you might have observed a young man attired in the height of the
prevailing fashion (his top-hat and varnished boots flashing fire in
the eyes of the Roman populace), going to call on his Aunt Eli-
zabeth. And his Aunt Elizabeth, pleased by such dutiful atten-
tions, rewarded him with frequent invitations to dinner. Her
other guests would be old ladies like herself, and old gentlemen,
and priests, priests, priests. So that Rosalys and I, the only
young ones present, were naturally paired together. After dinner
Rosalys would play and sing, while I hung over her piano. Oh,
how beautifully she played Chopin ! How ravishingly she sang !
Schubert’s TVoh in, and Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth ; and Gounod’s
Serenade and his Barcarolle :
“ Dites la jeune belle,
Oil voulez-vous aller ? ”
And how angelically beautiful she looked ! Her delicate, pale
face, and her dark, undulating hair, and her soft red lips ; and then
her eyes—her luminous, mysterious dark eyes, in whose depthsj
far, far within, you could discern her spirit shining starlike. And
her hands, white and slender and graceful, images in miniature of
herself; with what incommunicable wonder and admiration I used
to watch them as they moved above the keys. “ A woman who
plays Chopin ought to have three hands—two to play with, and
one for the man who’s listening to hold.” That was a pleasantry
which I meditated much in secret, and a thousand times aspired
to murmur in the player’s ear, but invariably, when it came to the
point